


A Week in November

by JRow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Military John Watson, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29872356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JRow/pseuds/JRow
Summary: John and Rosie have been living at Baker Street for years. John works part-time at a nearby surgery leaving plenty of time to assist Sherlock with cases. Rosie is brilliant and becoming more amazing everyday. And, in addition to being John’s friend, Sherlock has become an amazing second parent to Rosie. John is happy.Mycroft’s request seems simple enough. Tedious even. So tedious that John can’t understand why Sherlock agreed to it so easily. John is the one with reservations – there must be ways they can help that don’t involve his having to appear as (former) Captain John Watson. But it turns out that questioning a potential spy and providing an "extra set of eyes" at the National Service of Remembrance will prove much more emotional and exciting than John imagined.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 42





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> I am a long time reader who has finally bit the bullet, created an account, and am posting my first fanfic. This story is done (except for those last minute edits!) and I plan on posting updates on Mondays and Fridays. I am the only one seeing this before posting, so all errors are mine.
> 
> I have attempted to ground the story in things that exist in real life (ie., the National Service of Remembrance), but have invented some things for the sake of the story. On that note, One Week in November takes place in 2020 in a world without Covid.
> 
> Thanks for reading - I do hope someone out there likes it. I will read all comments.

John curses under his breath as he puts the bread in the toaster. “Every bloody day. How are we running behind every morning?” Then more loudly, Rosie sit down and eat your fruit. Toast will be ready soon. We need to be quick.”

Rosie rolls her eyes (a recent development and one John is not a fan of…she is 5, not 15), but does what she’s told. Momentarily at least. She’s up on her feet again the second she hears the door to Sherlock’s bedroom open and the sounds of the man shuffling to the kitchen. John takes in his friend. Sherlock looks like he has just woken up despite the fact that he’s already fully dressed – his hair is delightfully messy and his eyes are adjusting to the light. John smiles to himself – he has always thought that Sherlock looks much younger and innocent when he first wakes up.

“I can take Rosie to school,” Sherlock says through a yawn. “That buys you an extra twenty minutes since you can head right to work. You can actually eat your breakfast.”

“You don’t have to,” John sighs looking at his watch. If he was to take Rosie to school before heading to work, they really would have to leave right now or he’ll be late.

“Nonsense. I don’t know why we don’t plan on every Monday. I already go with you most mornings and take her on my own when you cover shifts that start at 7:30. It’s the logical option.” Sherlock turns to Rosie. “Watson, do you want me to take you to school?”

“Yes!” squeals Rosie, grabbing Sherlock’s leg. “You can tell me all about what everyone was up to this weekend. I love to know everyone’s secrets!” 

John can’t help but laugh. Of course Rosie loves Sherlock’s deductions. She’d gladly go anywhere with Sherlock. John’s looks fondly at his daughter and sighs. “Thank you Sherlock. I do appreciate it.” He takes out the toast and pops in two more slices of bread.

“I really don’t mind,” Sherlock says as he sits down at the table. “Anytime spent with Watson here is the best part of my day.”

John puts down a cup of coffee (two sugars) and two pieces of toast with honey in front of Sherlock. Rosie immediately snatches one and starts eating. “You know you may have to deal with Oliver’s mom,” John says with a chuckle “or Amelia’s dad.” 

“Amelia says her dad thinks you’re a fox, Sherlock. But you are a person. He’s so silly,” Rosie says between bites.

John bursts out laughing. Both he and Sherlock have had to deal with Oliver’s mom, Daphne, now and again, as it seems the recently divorced women is happy to flirt with any single men she comes across. But Amelia’s dad, Eric, only had eyes for Sherlock and has flirted pretty shamelessly at every opportunity. Sherlock has shown less than no interest in either Daphne or Eric or any of the other parents of Rosie’s classmates this year, but John appreciates that he hasn’t been overtly rude to anyone yet either. Although it is only November. 

“I can handle myself John, you know that. Now fix your coffee and toast and sit down. We now only have 15 minutes.”

XXXXXXXX

Thirteen minutes later, Sherlock and Rosie are at the front door with their coats and shoes on. “Hurry up, Daddy!” Rosie yells, as Sherlock puts on her backpack. 

“Wait. John, can you grab my phone? I left it on my bedside table,” Sherlock yells upstairs.

“Okay,” says John as he picks up his bag. He rushes into his friend’s bedroom and spies the phone on the table. As he reaches over to grab it, John notices something reflecting on the bed. He can make out what looks like a chain, but it is mostly covered by Sherlock’s pillow. John stares. It almost looks like….

“DADDDDDD,” Rosie yells.

“Coming,” says John, leaving Sherlock’s room and running down the stairs to the front door. Usually he is the one pushing Rosie out the door. He puts on his shoes and coat in record time and the three of them step out onto Baker Street. 

“Have a lovely day my angel,” John says to Rosie as he bends down to give her a kiss.

“You too, Daddy,” she replies with a big smile. 

“Thank you,” John says to Sherlock, rising to his feet. “And thank you for picking her up, as well. I should be home by 4:30.”

Sherlock gives John a nod. “It really is no trouble at all. Watson, are you ready?” Sherlock says, directing his attention to the little girl. 

“Let’s goooooo!” says Rosie, walking with Sherlock towards her school. 

“Bye,” yells John as he turns in the other direction to walk to the tube. 

XXXXXXXX

John’s day at the surgery is happily uneventful. He only works the one regular shift, Mondays from 8:30 – 4:00, with the rest of his work hours covering for vacations or sickness (but never working more than 22.5 hours per week, leaving him lots of time to assist on cases with Sherlock). He’s had this schedule for years now and his regular Monday shifts tend to be the easiest, if boring. It’s a good routine. Because he’s only part-time, John doesn’t have his “own” patients, seeing only emergency walk-ins. Having said this, he’s popular and he’s amassed several “regulars” who have figured out he’ll be there every Monday.

While it is mostly colds and flu today, John also gives two patients sutures, catches an early case of blood poisoning, and manages to get a woman with depression (Joan, a single mom who had come in with her son who had the flu) to open up about her mental health challenges. With a few phone calls, John is able to set her up with a psychologist who provides free treatment to lower income patients. Joan has an appointment for two days from now, which is unbelievable given how impossible it is to get mental health treatment for those who aren’t rolling in money. John has also set her up with free samples of two weeks’ worth of an SSRI, with a promise that she would come by every fortnight to get more. Although he’s not technically her doctor, he and Joan have set up a standing appointment every other Monday right at 9 AM. John won’t risk giving her a large supply of the medication and feels Joan is best served by the regularity of a standing appointment. John and Joan had connected over the love of their kids and the guilt associated with feeling like you are failing them. John is all too aware of how hard it was to take care of a child when you in the depths of a depression, and how feelings of inadequacy as a parent only compound the challenges. He really hopes Joan will feel well enough to keep her appointments with the psychologist and him. 

Joan’s son had been his last patient of the day, and the extended appointment (and extra phone calls) meant he is running a little late. John knows Rosie is safe with Sherlock, but he longs to see her and hug her tight. Rosie’s love is unconditional – John knows he is far from perfect, but she still regularly tells him he is the best daddy in the world. John laughs to himself thinking about how Rosie also regularly tells Sherlock that he is the “best Sherlock in the world.” Given he is probably the only Sherlock in the world, she is definitely right. But, John knows what she means to convey. Rosie is only five and she doesn’t fully grasp how different her family unit is from others. She knows that most people have a Mummy and Daddy, but not everyone. Rosie has a Daddy and a Sherlock. Oliver has a Richard (Step-Dad) in addition to his Mummy and Daddy. Lucy has two Mummys. And Alice doesn’t have a Mummy or Daddy and lives with her Grandma. John tends to refer to Rosie as Sherlock’s god-daughter when he has had to explain their relationship, but that doesn’t really cover it. Sherlock is a second parent to Rosie. Sometimes others refer to John as a “single father” and it annoys him on Sherlock’s behalf. John doesn’t face the same challenges as real single parents. Case in point is the fact that he is running late, but it doesn’t matter because Rosie is safe at home with her…Sherlock.

John arrives home at 4:45, yelling to Sherlock and Rosie as he bounds up the stairs. “Hi, I’m home. Sorry I’m late. I’ll come to the living room in a minute, I just have to drop off something in the bedroom.” 

“Take your time,” yells Rosie (where did she pick up that expression?) “we are making Thomas!” This means that she is putting together her Thomas the Train floor puzzle for the thousandth time. Rosie loves puzzles.

John enters the bedroom he shares with Rosie. He hasn’t forgotten what he’d seen this morning and just wants to check. He quietly walks over to the wardrobe and pulls out his box of mementos from the Army. At the very bottom of the box, under some old fatigues and shirts lays an envelope. His ID disks and the well worn grey chain (which he had “lost” because he couldn’t bear to give back when discharged), are stowed safely inside. He turns the round medallions in his fingers a few times before returning everything to the box. John shakes his head as he returns the box to the wardrobe. It was ridiculous to think they wouldn’t be there. 

XXXXXXXX

It is 5:15 when they hear the door open downstairs. Sherlock is still playing with Rosie on the floor. They’ve finished Thomas and have moved on to another of Rosie’s puzzles. It’s the Paw Patrol one now. It is her biggest puzzles (48 pieces) but she insists on doing it herself. Sherlock is watching and providing gentle guidance when she gets frustrated. John’s heart swells at the sight as he makes a stir-fry for tea. Sherlock is patient with Rosie in a way that he isn’t with any other person. She is now trying to force a corner puzzle piece that is clearly Skye’s face into a random non-edge piece that includes Ryder’s legs. Sherlock is chuckling to himself, until he hears the footsteps on the stairs.

Standing up, Sherlock rolls his eyes. “What are you doing here, Mycroft?” he yells. “Aren’t you busy with the war or something?”

“What war?” says John. He is also going to ask how Sherlock knew it was his brother coming up the steps, but he knows Sherlock would probably scoff that it was obvious.

“Aren’t we always in some war?” replies Sherlock with a shrug.

“Uncle Mycroft!” Rosie screams as Mycroft enters the apartment, umbrella in hand. She runs over to the smiling man and gives him a quick hug before pawing at his pockets. 

“Hello to you Ms. Watson, what could you possibly be looking for?” Mycroft says with a smile.

“What did you bring her Mycroft?” John sighs. Mycroft brings Rosie some sweet treat every time he visits. It is always from some posh bakery, or Belgian chocolaterie, or some other nonsense that is totally lost on a 5-year old that would be equally happy with a box of Smarties. John had tried to put a stop to the behaviour - Rosie certainly doesn’t need the extra sweets – but he’d given up. Mycroft, as uncomfortable as he had been around his “niece” in the beginning, has grown into the role of Uncle and seems dead set on spoiling her with sweets. 

“Well, I did happen to take this chocolate chip cookie from the kitchen after a meeting I had today. Is that something you’d be interested in Rosie? It was fresh out of the oven and the pastry chef says she has recently perfected the recipe.” Mycroft says as he bends down and pulls out a bag holding a rather large cookie from his pocket.

“Isn’t Elizabeth going to miss her dessert?” asks Sherlock with one eyebrow raised.

“Ah,” says Mycroft as he stands back to his full height. “So you do know the name of our illustrious head of state, brother?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and John chuckles. All the adults in the room know that Mycroft has far more influence over Great Britain than its supposed head of state or prime minister.

“Rosie you can have the Queen’s cookie after tea if you eat all your vegetables,” says John as he takes the cookie from Mycroft’s hand and places it on the kitchen table. He then moves back to the stove, putting the rice on to simmer.

Rosie puts on her best pouty face and looks at Sherlock who shrugs. “Your Dad makes the rules Watson, I dare not contradict him. Why don’t you go jump on my bed until tea?” Mycroft gives a very small nod indicating he appreciates Sherlock’s efforts to get Rosie out of the room.

“Yes!” squeals the little girl as she runs to Sherlock’s room. She will be happy in there on her own for the ten minutes it will take for the rice to finish. She loves jumping on Sherlock’s bed. John forbids her from doing it on his bed, and Sherlock only allows it every so often. John knows she also loves the feeling of Sherlock’s soft posh sheets under her feet as she jumps. Sherlock has wanted to buy Rosie the same high thread count sheets for her own bed, but John has so far forbidden it. John doesn’t want Rosie to get used to such fancy sheets….regular were just fine, thank you. 

“You indulge Rosie with all your treats,” says Sherlock to Mycroft as he walks over to the couch.

“I indulge her?” laughs Mycroft as he gestures towards a table in the corner that is covered in dozens of pieces of child-sized science equipment, including flasks and beakers, Petri dishes full of crystals of a range of colours, a microscope, safety goggles, and several containers filled with random specimens. 

“That is all educational,” replies Sherlock with a hint of a smile. “By the way John, in the next few days we’ll be receiving a shipment of a large variety of feathers. It’s for Rosie. I have a series of experiments planned.”

“Mycroft, you’re assuming that stuff is all for Rosie’s benefit. I’m fairly certain she is just the excuse,” says John with a big grin on his face. Sherlock returns his smile.

“Quite right,” replies Mycroft as he sits down on the couch and pulls out a file.

“Why are you here, Mycroft?” Sherlock sighs, the smile leaving his face.

“I am requesting your assistance, Sherlock. You and the good doctor” Mycroft replies, gesturing towards John.

“A case?” asks John, sitting in his chair. 

“Not quite,” says Mycroft, “My request is two-fold. I want you to observe a suspect we have and give me your thoughts. He is suspected of a rather serious crime, but we must tread carefully. While you are observing him, I also need you to generally observe your surroundings and alert me if anything seems…amiss.”

“Boring,” says Sherlock dismissively with a wave of his hand.

Mycroft raises his eyebrow and opens the large file in his hand. On top lays a picture of a solider in uniform. “Meet Corporal Matthew Sandhurst, who currently works in the office of the Chief of Defence. He has done tours in Afghanistan and Brunai. His left arm was injured in the former as a result of friendly fire. Corporal Sandhurst is from Devon, where his parents still live, and is unmarried and seemingly unattached.”

“Only child,” Sherlock adds looking at the picture, and Mycroft nods. 

“Extraordinary,” John says quietly, but loud enough that he knows the two men will hear. Sherlock’s abilities never cease to amaze him. 

“He is suspected of espionage,” Mycroft adds bluntly. “Someone in the Chief of Defence’s office has provided intelligence to the Russians. Of this this we are sure. We suspect it is the young Corporal.” 

“Does the Chief of Defence know there is a leak?” asks John.

“No,” replies Mycroft. “This is obviously a very delicate matter. Technically the spy could be the Chief of Defence himself, although that has been deemed highly unlikely. We would like maintain the façade that we are unware of the leak until we are sure of the perpetrator. This spy is, unbeknownst to them, part of larger network of Russian espionage that we have recently become aware of. The enemy does not know that we have identified this ring and we would like to keep it that way, otherwise we risk the whole operation being pushed underground. We are investigating several fronts simultaneously, including Corporal Sandhurst. We cannot make our next move until we are absolutely certain of his guilt and, for now, only a select few know about this leak. Your opinion on this matter would help put my mind at ease before we widen the group that knows of the investigation.” 

“So, you are sharing highly confidential information with us so that Sherlock can observe Corporal Sandhurst and let you know if he has the markings of a spy?” asks John with a laugh. “Sounds like I won’t be needed for this one, Sherlock.”

“He, and his colleagues, must be completely unaware that he is being investigated,” Mycroft replies sternly looking at John.

“Okay, so you expect us to…what? Discreetly follow him?” asks John. “And what was this about observing our surroundings?”

“Still sounds boring Mycroft. John and I have better things to…” Sherlock goes silent, stands up, and looks at Mycroft. He starts pacing, obviously putting together the pieces in his mind. “What’s the date?” he asks no one in particular.

“Monday, November 9, why?” replies John.

“You want us to observe him at the National Service of Remembrance,” states Sherlock matter-of-factly. “Have there been threats on the event?” 

“Yes. The threats are not considered credible, but…well we are stepping up security anyways. An two extra sets of eyes looking for anything amiss would be helpful.”

“What are the threats?” asks John, his anger rising at anyone who would threaten the event. “A bomb?”

“Nothing like that,” replies Mycroft curtly. “These threats are not related to terrorism. There has been no chatter along those lines. The threats received are of a personal nature against the Royal family, several of whom will be in attendance, of course. As I said, we have deemed the threats to be of low credibility, but they are…well I am asking you to keep an eye out. Any details I can share are in the file, I won’t bother going into detail now.” He tilts his head towards Sherlock’s room indicating Rosie’s presence. It sounds like she is singing the Wheels on the Bus as she jumps.

“To be perfectly honest,” says Mycroft holding up the file, “the vast majority of this file is about the threats. There is very little here on the espionage given it’s sensitive and confidential nature. However, speaking with the Corporal is my primary request.”

“Thousands of soldiers will be at the National Service of Remembrance, and it’s not like we can just wander around. How are we going to get anywhere near Corporal Sandhurst?” queries John.

“Ah, well luckily he has randomly been selected as one of the active members of armed forces who will be in the group that leads the parade of veterans. There will be 7 active members joined by 14 veterans” says Mycroft as he hands Sherlock an official looking memo. “This group stands, together, at the Cenotaph during the ceremony before leading the parade.”

Sherlock scans it quickly. “Interesting,” he says with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. “It seems he’ll be standing alongside a retired Captain from the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers who served Queen and Country in Afghanistan. What are the chances?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft looking at John. “I am assured that that Captain is a war hero, and was suitably honoured to be asked to be part of this group.”

“Wait, what?” says John. “No. No. No, that’s not happening. I can’t, it’d be…well embarrassing. I don’t belong there. Aren’t only the top service men and women and veterans invited to things like this? And they must be asked months in advanced? Won’t this be awfully suspicious?”

“It’s not that official. There is a lot nepotism involved. Favours for friends and family, that type of thing,” explains Mycroft while glancing at Sherlock. “Anyone with a good service record may, in theory, be invited, and you, Captain Watson, have an exemplary record. No one will question your being there. As for timing, you were included on the list of participant established six months ago. All saved and archived records reflect this,” Mycroft says smugly. “The official list is only finalized the week before the event because often invited veterans have to drop out because of health concerns.”

“Oh my god,” says John, head in his hands. “The World War II vets…I’d have to stand beside the World War II vets.”

“Behind,” corrects Mycroft ignoring John’s discomfort. “This year all World War II veterans be in wheelchairs. They will be pushed by their guest of choice. As an honoured participant, you are each entitled to a “plus one”, if you will. No one will be surprised that your guest is your…friend….” Mycroft gestures to Sherlock. “To be blunt, we are lucky that Corporal Sandhurst is one of the invitees. He was selected back in May because the Chief of Defence seems quite fond of him.”

“It’s an ideal venue” muses Sherlock. “If the Corporal is the spy, he will likely be wracked with guilt at being in such an honoured position.” 

“Precisely,” responds Mycroft. “To be perfectly honest, that is the only reason I am here. I wouldn’t be asking you to observe the Corporal so early in our investigation if this perfect opportunity hadn’t fallen in my lap. I will be at the ceremony myself, of course, and will try to get close enough to observe, but it is not guaranteed and it would be suspicious if I talked to him. Your illustrious military career is coming in very handy here, John.”

A loud thump indicates Rosie has jumped off the bed and she runs back into the living room. “Is tea almost ready?” she asks as she enters.

“Yes,” says John getting up and walking toward the kitchen. He supposes it’s not worth fighting, but he can’t believe he is going to be an “honoured” guest at the National Service. It’s ridiculous.

“Everything we need to know is in the file?” asks Sherlock. 

“Yes,” responds Mycroft standing up and walking towards the door. “Ms. Watson, I expect a thorough review of the cookie next time I see you. Sherlock, John, I will see you Sunday.” 

“Bye, Uncle Mycroft!” responds Rosie. John and Sherlock give Mycroft a nod and he turns to head down the stairs.

Suddenly Mycroft stops and turns back. “I…your primary task will be observing the Corporal, as I said. And the threats have, quite rightly, been deemed to be of low credibility. Likely someone blowing off steam. But I…” he stops. “I am very good at my job and I…retain some concern about the safety of the Royal family at this event.”

“Mycroft, are you saying you have a ‘feeling’ about this?” says Sherlock looking at his brother haughtily.

“No. Of course not. That would be preposterous. I will see you Sunday.” Mycroft turns and makes his exit.

John walks to the kitchen and starts dishing out the stir-fry and rice onto plates with a sigh. “I guess I better make sure my bloody dress uniform still fits,” he mumbles to himself.

XXXXXXXX

It’s 9 PM. Rosie is sound asleep upstairs and John is sitting in his chair with a scotch. He is staring at nothing in particular, deep in thought about the upcoming Sunday.

Sherlock is sitting at his desk, leafing through the file Mycroft left them. John catches him looking at him every couple of minutes. The concern is apparent on Sherlock’s face despite his efforts to hide it.

“You belong there as much as anyone,” Sherlock says quietly while looking at the file. He is deliberately not looking at John.

“World War II vets, Sherlock,” John says more loudly then he intended. “Active servicemen and women, the UK’s most honourable and brave veterans….and me. This is absolutely insane. There will be thousands in the parade. Thousands. I should not be at the front by any means. God, will I have to meet the Royals and somehow not tell them that I don’t belong there?” He takes a big drink, continuing to stare forward. 

“John,” Sherlock closes the file and looks directly at him “you are a veteran. You served your country.” He stands up and moves towards the window, back to John. “Whatever your supposed faults, and I assure you they are far less numerous than you think, no one can claim you are not honourable and brave. Not even you.”

“World War II vets,” John says again quietly shaking his head. “I just…they are heroes.”

“I…” Sherlock pauses looking out the window. “I have never asked to see Mycroft’s file on you. I assume it’s comprehensive. I would have in the beginning if it didn’t involve asking Mycroft for a favour. But I didn’t and I won’t. And he has never offered to show me either, something I am grateful for.”

John looks at Sherlock’s back, waiting for him to go on.

“Having said that, Mycroft has let some things slip now and again. Generally, when he’s trying to convince me to follow your medical advice. I know you treated hundreds, if not thousands, of people while in Army. Our servicemen and women, as well those from our allies, and civilians caught in the ravages of wars. Even those who fought against us. You’d be surprised the level of detail the Army keeps. They estimate you saved the lives of dozens of soldiers, possibly more…not just treated, but directly saved the lives of. Mycroft told me there were several cases where your superiors were convinced a soldier would have died had they been treated by anyone other than yourself.” Sherlock starts tapping on the window. “You were also a Captain. And were shot serving the country. Do. Not. Sell. Yourself. Short.” Sherlock is now speaking forcefully, with a twinge of anger in his voice.

Silence envelops the flat for several minutes. Sherlock stays at the window and John sits, taking in what he just heard. Intellectually he knows it’s true, but he still somehow feels that he just did what anyone else would have done in the same position.

“No one else could have done what you did, John,” Sherlock says with a sigh. John has stopped being surprised when Sherlock can read his mind. “But, maybe more importantly, even if they could, they didn’t. You did.”

Silence again.

“Rosie has never seen me in my uniform” says John quietly. “Not even in pictures. She’ll probably like that.”

“Indeed,” says Sherlock, turning around. “We can take some photos of the two of you together on Sunday. And I have no doubt that Mrs. Hudson will adore seeing you in uniform.”

“I’ll take it out tomorrow and make sure it fits and is clean and all that,” says John. “I’m not working at the surgery tomorrow, so I’ll take the day to read the file too. I…just can’t read or talk about it tonight, okay?”

“Of course,” says Sherlock. “I will complete my review tonight and leave it for you. Like Mycroft said most of this folder is about the threats. I can’t believe he has ‘a feeling’ about that,” he says with a shake of his head.

“I can’t believe he brought Rosie a cookie the size of her head,” laughs John. “How did it fit in his pocket? And does the Queen really eat cookies that big on the regular?” 

“I am sure it took all of Mycroft’s self-control not to eat the damn thing himself during the car ride over,” Sherlock says with a smile. “Although I have long suspected he always buys 2 of everything he brings Rosie under the guise of having to test it for her. I am not the only one who uses her as an excuse.” 

“So you admit it!” laughs John.

They spend the rest of the evening laughing and talking about Rosie and Mycroft and everything but the case. At eleven, John retires to his and Rosie’s room, leaving Sherlock to review the files in silence.


	2. Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting two chapters on Friday because they are shorter. Thanks for reading!

John tries on his uniform after dropping Rosie off at school. Somehow it stills fit and is perfectly clean. John is certainly a little bit softer than he once was, but he doesn’t look half bad. Maybe that isn’t such a surprise. John does try to work out regularly, and he and Sherlock still frequently chase criminals around London’s streets.

John changes back into his regular clothes and goes to join Sherlock in the living room. “It still fits. And it’s clean, so I don’t need to worry about that.”

“Of course it still fits, you are only 6 lbs heavier than when I met you,” Sherlock replies without looking up from his laptop. “I’ve left the file on your chair. I read through everything last night and we can talk through it when you are done. Maybe we can get lunch and walk Whitehall?”

“Sure,” says John walking over and picking up the file. “I’m not sure what you’ll see at Whitehall that will help, however, it’s going to look very different on Sunday.”

“I want to get a clear understanding of the buildings in the area. Roofs with a view of the Cenotaph, etc.” explains Sherlock.

“Yes, of course,” says John with a nod. He sits down and opens the file. “I guess I’ll get started on this.”

XXXXXXXX

By noon, John has read through everything in the file, reread a few things, and now finds himself flipping back and forth trying to piece it all together. Mycroft was right, this file is almost entirely about the threats on the royal family. Obviously the spy case is still very hush-hush if Mycroft is willing share so little.

What John has gleaned about the spy case is that, so far, nothing highly sensitive has been shared from the office of the Chief of Defense. But, two pieces of confidential information have made their way to the Russians that could have only come from someone in the office. Mycroft’s people are sure that the information is being shared via letter drops or handovers, as opposed to by phone or email. But, there are no details about why they think that. John suspects that the Russian spy ring has a leak of their own and that’s where Mycroft’s team is getting their intel. Nothing is clear from the file, however. It doesn’t even explain exactly why they suspect Corporal Sandhurst, beyond notes indicating that he was one of four staff who had easy access to the confidential information shared so far. John suspects a few laws have been broken in the government’s investigation so far and Mycroft (among others) would rather not create a paper trail that proves it.

The file does include some background on the suspect. Corporal Sandhurst seems like an ideal soldier. Not a superstar by any means, but competent. Good even. He is moving up the ranks as he should. A solid set of commendations. Well liked and respected by his peers and superiors. His medical records and psych evaluation show nothing of note. The file also contains several official pictures. John doesn’t think he looks like a spy, but he supposes that no good spy does.

The majority of the morning is spent reviewing what is known about the threats to the royal family. The file includes all threats received; there are 24 in total and they were all sent through the post (which seems quite quant in this day and age). The threats seem to be against the royal family in general, but the letters themselves were sent to The Queen, or those in the direct line of succession, namely The Prince of Wales, The Duke of Cambridge, or Prince George. Each threat is four lines, centre justified, and typed in black text (identified by Mycroft’s minions as Arial font) on plain printer paper. The envelopes are standard, and the addresses are also typed out. No return address or marks on the envelopes.

The threats were all dropped in a public post box in the east of London, although they can’t pin down the exact one. Despite the fact that the perpetrator went to the effort of making 24 threats, they were all dropped off at the same time. There are dozens of possible post boxes that may have been used, many of which are in incredibly busy areas, and/or outside the view of CCTV cameras. There is nothing on any of the letters to help trace them. Based on the language used, the profile of the suspect is male, 45-65 years old, middle class, university educated, married, raised in England, and a native English speaker.

The threats themselves are interesting. It seems like the recipient was randomly chosen. As in there is no connection between all the threats sent to the Queen versus those sent to her son. Some of them aren’t even really threats per se, rather creepy messages. Some of them are explicit, however, clearly stating that a member of the royal family will suffer harm on November 15 “at the service.” Reading all of the threats back-to-back provide a picture of a suspect who is angry about the country’s continued involvement in wars (Iraq and Afghanistan are both mentioned) and the accompanying loss of life. The letter-writer obviously has a great deal of respect for the service-men and -women who are fighting these wars. This includes, bizarrely, respect for those members of the royal family that have served. A couple of the letters acknowledge that the decision to go to war is made by politicians, not the monarchy, but go on to say that the Queen should have put a stop to United Kingdom’s participation in any conflict anyways. That, having sons and grandsons who served, she should know that these conflicts aren’t worth the human sacrifice. John agrees with the hypothesis that the letter writer is not a present or past service member themselves, but likely lost a family member (child would be John’s guess) in either Iraq or Afghanistan.

John finally closes the file and looks at Sherlock, who appears to be deep in thought (mind palace?) with his eyes closed. Or he’s having a kip sitting up, which is not unheard of. It’s hard to tell. John coughs and Sherlock immediately opens his eyes and looks at him. Not a kip then.

“I’m done. You ready for lunch? Chinese?” asks John.

XXXXXXXX

John and Sherlock are sitting in a booth at the back of a Chinese restaurant they have never been to before. Many of the other patrons look to be tourists, which is not unexpected since the restaurant is relatively close to Whitehall. John is tucking into his large order of chicken soo guy (with two egg rolls on the side) while Sherlock watches, completely ignoring his hot and sour soup.

“Here,” says John with an amused sigh as he puts half his meal (plus one egg roll) on a side plate and slides it across the table. Sherlock starts eating it immediately. John chuckles to himself. This might have annoyed him in the past, but now he just always orders assuming Sherlock will eat half his food. If it means Sherlock will eat, John is happy. It sometimes raises eyebrows when they (very occasionally) end up at the pub for a meal with officers from Scotland Yard, but John has long since stopped caring about raising eyebrows.

“So, what did you think about the file?” asks John between bites.

“Well, I can’t say anything useful about our Corporal based on the drivel Mycroft let us see,” Sherlock replies. He is clearly annoyed. “All I can do is talk to him on Sunday and establish whether he is capable of being a spy and if feels guilty about something related to his position. I don’t think we have enough to go on for me to establish a definitive verdict. It is highly unsatisfactory.”

“I don’t think Mycroft is looking for anything definitive,” replies John with a shrug.

“Well I don’t like it.”

“What about the threats? What do you think about the analysis of those?” John asks. Best to steer the conversation away from Corporal Sandhurst. There is no benefit in getting Sherlock riled up.

“I agree with the conclusions of Mycroft’s minions. Although I also think that the word selection indicates the suspect was raised in the North,” Sherlock says with a dismissive wave at no one in particular. “Did anything stand out to you?” he adds with a raised eyebrow that indicates there is some part of his analysis he is leaving out.

“Yeah, actually,” John shifts in his seat. God, it’s been a decade and he still gets a bit of an adrenalin rush when he thinks he might be able to impress Sherlock. It is often followed by a quick crash if Sherlock rolls his eyes at John’s idea, but sometimes (more and more often to be honest) John is rewarded with that look that gives him butterflies and makes him puff out his chest. That look from Sherlock that is filled with…respect? Pride? Love? It’s almost like a combination of all of them.

“The suspect – I am assuming it’s a ‘he’ – he often talks about heroes. The heroes, these heroes, those heroes, he or she is a hero, etc. I think the word hero appears in almost all of the threats,” John starts.

“Yes,” says Sherlock with a nod that suggests he knows where John is going.

The nod buoys John. “But in one case, and in one case only, he talks about our hero. Possessive. Singular. It’s the one that includes the line from ‘In Flanders Fields’. The suspect says ‘let us not forget the words of our hero, If ye break faith with us who die, We shall not sleep…”

“though poppies grow in Flanders fields,” Sherlock joins him in saying the final lines of the poem. “I noticed that too.”

“Firstly, it’s a bizarre interpretation of the poem. But that’s neither here nor there. Obviously our suspect feels a kinship with the author, John McCrae, in some way or another. At first I thought that maybe the suspect was just mistaken and thought McCrae was British, but that doesn’t explain why he wouldn’t use the term ‘our’ elsewhere when he talks about heroes,” John says. “I don’t know what the connection is. That’s all I got.”

Sherlock gives John the look he was craving and then starts in on John McCrae’s biography. “Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, soldier, doctor, poet. He was born in 1872 in Guelph, Canada shortly after that country’s confederation. Served in the Second Boer War and had various medical jobs in Canada, including as a pathologist. Studied for a time in England and was a member of the Royal College of Physicians. Co-authored a text book. Then World War I began. He was a Medical Officer and Major at the beginning of the war, and then set up and ran a field hospital in France. He died in France in January 1918 of pneumonia and meningitis. He received full military honours at his funeral.” Sherlock stops. “I have no idea if any of this matters.”

John chuckles. “Well it’s certainly interesting to me at least. And something in there resonates with our suspect. He certainly seems to like to write – 24 threats seem a bit much, don’t you think?” John stops smiling and looks straight at Sherlock. “What if he, the suspect I mean, fancies himself a poet? What if that is the connection? Our hero…the hero of war poets, or something?”

Sherlock’s eyes light up as he smiles at John. “I think that’s a guess, but it’s as good a guess as any. It makes sense.”

“It does,” says John proud of himself.

The two men sit in silence eating for another couple of minutes before John speaks again.

“It’s a good poem. In Flanders Field. At least I think so. I’m no poetry expert of course, but…” He pauses before continuing “but that’s the point. Its not a poem for those who consider themselves poetry experts. I am an average man. Was an average solider. And it speaks to me. It paints a picture the average man and woman can understand and…feel. The pain, the loss, the questions. They come through. At least to me.”

Sherlock gives John a look he can’t read before he responds. “Legend has it that McCrae wrote the poem after presiding over the funeral of a friend who died at Ypres. He wasn’t happy with his work so he threw the poem out. It was saved by some fellow soldiers,” Sherlock says quietly looking down. “I guess McCrae was a doctor-soldier-writer who didn’t recognize his own talent. He probably erroneously thought he was an ‘average’ man and soldier.” Sherlock looks up directly at John and holds his gaze.

John swallows and looks away. He has a feeling in his chest he can’t place. It’s silly, but he wants to reach out and grab Sherlock’s hands. Luckily the waiter saves him by bringing over the bill.

XXXXXXXX

John and Sherlock leave the restaurant and start to walk towards the cenotaph. John turns around when her hears a voice yell, “Sherlock! John! Hi!”

Eric, Amelia’s (a classmate of Rosie’s) Dad is running towards them with a big smile on his face. “Fancy meeting you here. Strange to see each other so far from the school and without the little ones around, huh?”

Sherlock still hasn’t turned around. John glances at him and has to stifle a laugh. Sherlock is rolling his eyes in annoyance like a teenager. So that’s where Rosie learned it. “Hi Eric,” John says.

“Hi,” repeats Eric. John begrudgingly has to admit Eric is an attractive man and looks incredibly put together today. Not as attractive as Sherlock of course, but Eric certainly makes John feel like a troll. Just under six feet, chestnut hair styled with some gunk (maybe the same stuff Sherlock uses?), dark brown eyes that match the colour of his hair somehow, designer stubble, and a strong body that is free of excess fat – he looks like he could be in the premier league. He’s also dressed in a perfectly fitted Burberry coat. John suddenly feels incredibly self-conscious and tugs at his old coat. “What brings you around these parts?” Eric asks coyly.

Sherlock finally turns around. Slowly. The expression on his face has switched from annoyance to indifference. John appreciates that that is for his benefit – Sherlock is trying to be ‘good’ with the parents of Rosie’s classmates.

“Hello,” says Sherlock. Eric responds to the statement by staring directly at Sherlock and giving him a giant smile. His teeth are perfect. Too perfect, he must have had them whitened. John thinks, in this one case, he wouldn’t mind if Sherlock showed a little annoyance. John scolds himself for being so petty and jealous.

“It’s great to see you, Sherlock. You look fantastic – I know I tell you every time I see you, but I really love that coat. And that scarf brings out your eyes. Not that they need any help.” Eric has cocked his head to the side and looks like he is preparing to devour Sherlock. John is fairly certain he (John) could spontaneously combust at the moment and Eric wouldn’t notice.

Sherlock just stares blankly back at Eric. John coughs.

“So, what are you doing around here?” asks Eric again, still totally ignoring John. “Is it a case? I bet it’s fascinating, just like you.” He winks. Winks! “Although if it is a case, you probably couldn’t tell me, could you,” he adds with a flirtatious grin.

“No. I couldn’t,” says Sherlock plainly. He is somehow looking more indifferent now and John knows it is taking all of Sherlock’s efforts to not just turn around and walk away from this conversation. John gives Sherlock a quick look of appreciation.

“I am not usually around here either,” says Eric, who seems somehow oblivious to Sherlock’s lack of interest. “I work in finance and I have a meeting with the Chancellor of the Exchequer.” Eric puffs out his chest a bit. John looks at the ground and wills himself not to laugh as his jealousy dissipates. Eric is clearly trying to show off to Sherlock. He may be gorgeous, but he obviously doesn’t know Sherlock Holmes at all.

There is a pause.

“Their assistant,” says Sherlock matter-of-factly. “You are meeting with the Chancellor of whatever’s assistant or some other staffer, not the man or woman themselves.”

“Woman,” says John quietly still trying not to laugh. Sherlock looks at him and shrugs. He obviously doesn’t care.

“It’s basically like meeting with the Chancellor herself,” grumbles Eric, clearly deflated.

“If you say so,” says Sherlock. “You’ve never met her. This is the first time you’ve met the assistant,” he adds, quite unnecessarily.

Eric looks like a five-year-old who dropped his ice cream. Or had it stolen.

“You have,” says John to Sherlock quietly. He really doesn’t need to point this out, but John is hoping this awkward exchange will finally convince Eric that his pursuit of Sherlock is futile. Also, he admits he is becoming annoyed at being so clearly ignored. “You’ve met the Chancellor, although she wasn’t in that role then.”

“Have I?” asks Sherlock, looking at John. “Was she one of the dreadful politicians at that thing at Parliament that Mycroft made us go to last year?”

“Yes. But Mycroft didn’t make us go. I wanted to,” replies John.

“I still blame Mycroft. I’ve deleted my conversations with all of those MPs. That night was one of the most tedious I have ever...” Sherlock stops and his eyes go wide. “I won’t have to talk to any politicians on Sunday will I? Dear god.”

John chuckles. “No, I don’t think so. Based on the itinerary – which you could have read by the way – there is a chance that they’ll be a few about, but I doubt they’ll be interested in you given the rest of the guests. I may have to shake hands with a few.”

“You have to protect me from that level of tedium on Sunday,” says Sherlock before looking back at Eric seemingly surprised the other man is still there. “John is going to be an honoured guest at the National Service of Remembrance,” he says gesturing towards John.

“Sherlock, there is no need to bring this up,” says John with a sigh. He looks at the ground willing this entire conversation to be over. John would rather not spread the word about this. It’d be one thing if he’d been invited on merit, but he’s only going to be there because of Mycroft’s doing.

“Nonsense. John will be in the group leading the parade and standing right at the cenotaph during the wreath laying ceremony. It is an honour. One that is well-deserved despite what John thinks,” Sherlock looks at John and he seems…proud? He literally puffs out his chest a bit and his eyes are soft. Sherlock then turns back to Eric and glares at him. “John may be modest, but this honour is something that is actually worth bragging about.”

“Of course, yes. What an honour, John,” says Eric looking incredibly uncomfortable. John nods.

There are a few seconds of awkward silence. John coughs again.

“Right. Polite small talk,” says Sherlock looking exasperated. “How was your dental appointment, Eric? And how is little….” Sherlock looks at John.

“Amelia,” says John.

“Um, the dentist was fine?” responds Eric, obviously confused about how Sherlock knew about his appointment. “And Amelia is good. Great. What about Rosie?”

John opens his mouth, but Sherlock beats him to it. “Rosie is wonderful of course. Brilliant. Now, if you’ll excuse us, John and I have to go now.”

“A case,” John adds as an explanation.

“Right, yes. I have to go to my meeting too of course,” replies Eric regaining his composure. “It was nice to…err…see you both. I’ll see you at school I imagine.”

“See you around,” says John. Sherlock just gives a sarcastic wave and turns and starts walking. John has to run a little bit to catch up with him.

“How did you know about the dentist?” asks John while they walk once he’s sure Eric is out of earshot.

“He kept running his tongue over his teeth,” replies Sherlock with a dismissive wave. “At first I wondered if it was some ridiculous flirtation technique, but then I noticed the faint red marks on the bridge of his nose. He obviously wore those protective glasses.”

“Brilliant,” says John. Sherlock smiles. After all these years John knows he still adores the praise. “So, you noticed he was flirting with you then?” John adds.

Sherlock stops and looks at John like he’s grown two more heads. “Of course I noticed. I am not a complete moron. That horrid new officer at Scotland Yard would have noticed.”

“Smith,” says John knowing Sherlock doesn’t care about the officer’s name. “It’s just that you sometimes seem oblivious about that stuff, that’s all.”

“I’m glad it seems that way. If I seem completely oblivious people usually stop eventually. Although Eric has been annoyingly persistent,” Sherlock grumbles. “Provided I have no interest in the person, it is embarrassingly easy to spot.” He stops talking suddenly, as if realising he’s said too much.

“Provided you have no interest?” asks John nonchalantly. He knows he has to tread lightly here. If he comes on too strong with this line of questioning, Sherlock will surely close off. They don’t talk about stuff like this as much as they should, given how intertwined their lives have become. “You think it’s harder to identify flirting in people in whom you do have an…well an interest?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies dismissively. He is looking everywhere but at John. “It obviously doesn’t…or hasn’t…happened often, but it seems my observation skills can be…severely clouded by…interest.”

John bursts out laughing. A deep belly laugh. He has to stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Sherlock stops and looks over at him confused, but then starts laughing too. Soon they are both teary eyed.

“’Interest’ certainly can cloud things,” says John between laughs using air quotes around the first word. “’Interest has led me to make some questionable decisions in my life. And has created some awkward moments. I am glad to know that interest can cloud the judgment of even the great Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, I am human after all,” says Sherlock as he catches his breath.

“On that bombshell, let’s make our way to the cenotaph.”

XXXXXXXX

The two men walk up and down the street around the cenotaph, mostly in silence, for about an hour. John is lost in thought about Sunday, but Sherlock is busy surveying the area. It appears he is considering possible angles and lines of site from windows and roofs, looking for possible hiding places, and considering the trees that line the street. He spends 10 minutes examining the gate at the Foreign & Commonwealth Office, but John doesn’t bother asking why.

“Okay, I am satisfied,” says Sherlock. “We can go home.” He looks at his watch. “We should be able to get home by 3:30. Hopefully in time to stop Rosie from convincing Mrs. Hudson it’s a good to have hot chocolate and treats.”

John chuckles. He bets that Sherlock is actually hoping there will be hot chocolate and biscuits waiting for them when they get home. Well biscuits at least. He has a bigger sweet tooth than Rosie.

“Did you find anything interesting?” asks John as they walk towards the tube. A cab will be slower at this time of day.

“No,” admits Sherlock with a huff.

There is a moment of silence. John breaks it. “Why did you agree to take this case…or favour…so quickly Sherlock?” John has been wondering since Mycroft left the flat yesterday.

“Matter of national security? Espionage? I thought you’d be glad I agreed,” answers Sherlock. He looks a little uncomfortable.

“I’m not surprised that you agreed,” explains John. “I’m surprised you agreed so quickly. And without a fight. Especially since the request came from Mycroft. You recognized this whole thing as boring, but then just…well went along with it. Plus, it seemed like Mycroft knew you would. He knew you wouldn’t put up a fight and didn’t put in any effort to make it sound more interesting than it was.”

“I owe Mycroft a favour,” says Sherlock brusquely. “He knew that. This was just him cashing in.”

“Right,” says John. He doesn’t believe Sherlock, but he won’t push it further. At least not today.


	3. Wednesday-Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, the comments, and the kudos! I appreciate it.

The rest of the week seems to fly by. John covers shifts at the surgery on Wednesday and Thursday, and reviews the “case” with Sherlock in the evenings after Rosie goes to bed. His only other activity is sneaking out for a haircut during his lunch on Thursday – he can’t imagine wearing his beret with anything other than military-short hair. He doesn’t think the haircut should be a surprise, but he notices Sherlock staring at him that evening.

Reviewing the case entails going over what Sherlock has learned from doing background checks during the day when he is at work. They focus on the guests of the honoured armed forces members and veterans to see if any of them fit the profile of the letter writer. John, Sherlock, and Mycroft’s people all agree that the letter writer has never served themselves so they don’t waste time on the armed forces members or veterans themselves. It’s a long shot anyways, but best to be thorough.

None of the guests perfectly match the profile, but Sherlock and John decide it’s worth keeping an eye on two of them. There are two participants who lost a close family member in Afghanistan within the past year who will be representing the fallen soldiers. One is a man, Byron Jones, aged 50. He is (was?) a (single) father whose only son, Owen, was killed in a friendly fire accident just three months ago. He is in the right age range, born and lived his whole life in Manchester, but has never been married and isn’t university educated. He does have reason to be angry though.

The other guest that catches Sherlock and John’s eye is George Farris. He’s the husband of one of the other veterans in the group and was never in the armed forces himself. He’s the right age (48), married, university educated, born and raised in the North. His wife was injured in Iraq – she lost her left leg below the knee when the jeep she was in drove over an IUD - and moved into an office job at the Army HQ. But there is nothing else about Farris that says he may be any sort of criminal or harbour resentment. He’s a well-liked teacher and it seems he and his wife (and their two kids) are very happy.

These two men really seem like dead-ends, but watching them will at least give John and Sherlock something to do during the service.

John’s other mission on Wednesday and Thursday is to try to explain things to Rosie. Not the case of course, but his role in the parade and ceremony, and his past life as a soldier. He dreads these conversations, but they are easier than expected. Rosie had never known him as a soldier, but luckily they have been learning about the armed forces, war, peace, and all that in school. A lot of papers with poppies on them are being sent home. Not surprisingly, the school seems to know better than John does what is age appropriate and he is grateful for it. When John tells Rosie on Wednesday night over tea that he had been a soldier and doctor in a war she seemed to, at least partially, understand. They have discussions about his past (usually about the army, but sometimes Rosie wants to know about other things including her mommy). The discussions leave John exhausted but he feels like bond with his little girl is strengthening for having had them.

XXXXXXXX

On Friday, they put Mycroft’s case aside to actually make some money by solving a boring case for a corporate client. It’s basically a combination of some forensic accounting and unofficial interrogations of staff. It is incredibly tedious (as Sherlock reminded John every 5 minutes), but it only takes a day and the ridiculous paycheque is too high to pass up. Sherlock had taken some convincing, but agreed quickly when John made the argument that Sherlock could handle one day for a boring case if he (John) could be forced to participate in the National Service of Remembrance the same week. 

That night Sherlock is in charge of reading Rosie her bedtimes stories while John cleans up the kitchen. When he is done, John quietly climbs the stairs and listen at the bedroom door, which is only open a crack. Surprisingly, it seems as if neither Rosie or Sherlock notice him. John smiles to himself, he rarely is able to sneak up on either of them. Rosie may not have any of Sherlock’s actual genes, but it is uncanny how may of his skills she seems to have inherited.

John stands just outside the door and listens. He hears the final lines of the centipede page of “The Big Book of Bugs” and then the sound of Sherlock closing the book and Rosie yawning.

“Watson, I think we should stop there. I’ll read the rest tomorrow, and then you can write the test,” Sherlock says. John can hear the smile in his voice.

“You’re so silly,” responds Rosie with a laugh. John thinks his heart may explode. He pushes open the door to the room to say goodnight to his little girl.

XXXXXXXX

Nerves and discomfort about Sunday has John full of anxiety on Saturday morning. He can’t do this. He’s an absolute fraud. John knows better than to voice these anxieties to Sherlock, but his friend must notice them anyways because he suggests they all go for a trip to the London zoo. John adores going to the zoo with Rosie and Sherlock. Usually an outing with Rosie (and any five-year-old) is an ordeal, but not when they go to the zoo. That’s because John doesn’t do anything, but have a relaxing walk. This is Sherlock’s show and he does all the work. This visit is no exception. As per usual, John walks behind Rosie and Sherlock watching them take in all the animals, in their own little world. They both get so excited laughing and pointing and whispering conspiratorially to each other. But, Sherlock also takes care of Rosie when she falls and scratches her knee, when she has a tantrum that she can’t get a second ice cream, and every time she gets overwhelmed trying to decide what animal to go see next. Rather than feel left out on these visits, John relishes getting to observe his daughter and her godfather together. When the family get home at 5pm with a very tired little girl, John feels perfectly content. This is all he needs. He wouldn’t change a thing.


	4. Sunday - Part 1

John’s anxiety returns in full force Sunday morning and he wakes well before his 7:00 AM alarm. He decides to make a full English breakfast as a distraction and, luckily, it works. John is so focused on cooking the eggs, toast, bacon, beans, and sausage that he can’t think about anything else. He realizes he must be making a racket because it doesn’t take long for Sherlock to come to help. Without being asked, Sherlock starts making coffee and setting the table. John gives him a smile. Pre-Rosie, Sherlock would never have done this. The little girl has changed so much.

Rosie, John, and Sherlock eat a leisurely breakfast and talk about random things unrelated to the day’s event. Rosie has decided her favourite animal is a giraffe and is full of questions. It’s the perfect diversion. But, after they have all finished (even Sherlock who rarely cleans his plate), John looks at his watch and is brought back to reality. As if on cue, he gets a text from Molly letting him know she is 15 minutes away. 

“I better go get changed,” John says, standing up from the table.

“Watson,” Sherlock says looking at Rosie, “let’s clean up while your Dad gets ready.”

XXXXXXXX

John stands in his and Rosie’s room looking at his reflection. He admits to himself that really does look good in uniform even if he feels uncomfortable in the khaki jacket and trousers. He adjusts the brown strap on his right shoulder then fiddles with the belt to make sure it’s straight. John then turns to the side to look at the insignia that identifies him as a Captain. He was so damn proud when he was made Captain. He was, and still is, far prouder of that insignia than he is of any of the medals that he now pins to his chest. Being promoted to Captain was a big deal. Is a big deal? But it was so long ago. A lifetime. 

John sighs as he bends down to put on his shoes. Time for the finishing touch. He always like the hat of the fusiliers – a beret with a red and white hackle. Some of his Army buddies had bemoaned the hackle as it serves no practical purpose, but John always thought it made the outfit look more official. 

“Here we go,” says John out loud to himself. He leaves the room and walks downstairs.

Rosie starts giggling as soon as John enters the living room. “What do you think, Rosie?” he asks, doing a little twirl.

She stops giggling and looks very serious. “You look very nice Daddy.” She turns to give Sherlock a small nod. She has obviously been coached. She starts giggling again. “Can I wear the hat later? I like the feather the best!”

John smiles. “It’s called a hackle, Rosie. And sure, after I get home from the ceremony.” 

“So,” says John turning his attention to Sherlock “do I look okay? It’s been ages since I’ve worn this thing. I feel a bit like I’m going to a fancy dress party”

Sherlock is staring at him with a blank look on his face. John realizes he’s seen this look before when he asked Sherlock to be his best man. Rosie has lost interest in the proceedings and has started a puzzle.

“Umm..Sherlock?” asks John after what feels like minutes of silence. “You okay?”

Sherlock shakes his head as if he is snapping out of it (whatever it is). “Yes. You look fine. No, not fine. Not just fine. Good I mean. You look good. Very put together.” Sherlock is rambling. He is saved by the sound of the doorbell. “That will be Molly. I better go get changed myself.” He turns on his heel and rushes out of the room. 

John shrugs off Sherlock’s behaviour. It must be strange for him to see John in a uniform for the first time after knowing him for so many years. This day is going to be bizarre for John and Sherlock alike.

John turns to the living room door. He can hear Molly and Mrs. Hudson climbing the stairs together. He braces himself for what he knows is coming and is not surprised when Mrs. Hudson squeals with delight upon entering the flat.

“Oh John,” she says, sounding emotional. “You look wonderful. Very handsome. We are all so proud of you.” Rosie is beaming at the praise being directed at her father.

“You do look great, John,” adds Molly with a smile.

“Thanks. And thank you for watching Rosie on such short notice. I am quite sure she’ll enjoy being here with you two more than she would be at the ceremony. You know that we usually don’t let her watch TV in the morning, but she is, of course, allowed to watch as much of the National Service as she likes. To be honest, I don’t think it will hold her interest although I suppose there is a chance she’ll get to see Sherlock or I on TV...” John realizes he must be more nervous than he thought because now he is rambling.

“It’s no problem, John. I’m excited to spend the day with Rosie!” Molly beams at the little girl. The two of them have a wonderful bond. John is thankful that Rosie has a strong woman (who is not of grandparent age) influence in her life. “I brought some new puzzles,” she says holding up a tote with a smile. 

Rosie runs over to inspect the bag and picks out a puzzle to start working on (it has a space theme). John and Molly join her on the floor to work on it. John is so focused on the puzzle and Rosie’s excitement that he doesn’t hear Sherlock come back into the room until Mrs. Hudson speaks. 

“Oh, Sherlock, you look wonderful. Not as good as John mind you, but quite nice.” Mrs. Hudson nudges Sherlock with her elbow.

John looks up at his flatmate. Mrs. Hudson is right, he looks fantastic. Sherlock is wearing all black. John has seen the suit before - it’s the one where the trousers are just a little slimmer than his others. The black shirt looks new though. John wonders if he got it specifically for today. The buttons look matte, but the shirt itself has a slight shine and the fabric looks incredibly soft. John is tempted to reach out and touch it. Sherlock has only left the top button undone – usually he keeps two open. John assumes it’s because of the somber nature of today’s event and then wonders why it’s even something he noticed. Sherlock has also put some that posh styling cream in his hair and it looks, and smells, incredible. 

“I am quite sure no one will be paying me any attention today as long as I am standing near John,” Sherlock says to Mrs. Hudson with a smile.

John stands up and rolls his eyes. John could be completely naked and Sherlock would still always be the centre of attention. Sherlock is not a man who can be ignored. 

“I like Daddy’s outfit better because it has a feather,” says Rosie nonchalantly. The adults all laugh warmly which makes her beam.

“No feathers for me,” says Sherlock with a wink towards Rosie.

“Time for photos!” announces Mrs. Hudson. “Molly, could you take them on your phone? They always turn out so nice when you take them.”

John groans as Molly nods and pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Is this necessary?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Mrs. Hudson curtly. “Now first, John and Rosie.”

Rosie is always thrilled to have her picture taken, so she quickly jumps up and runs over to John. He picks her up and she grins looking towards Molly. 

“Say cheese!”

Molly snaps four or five photos before Mrs. Hudson is satisfied. “Alright now Sherlock join them,” the older woman instructs.

Sherlock stands beside John. “Put me down Daddy,” says Rosie. “I want to be in between you and Sherlock. But, like, in front.” She moves to her desired location and then gives Molly a nod.

As Molly takes a few pictures, John sneaks a smile at Sherlock, who is looking back at him. Rosie is clearly mimicking how she’s seen other families arrange themselves in photos. 

Next, Mrs. Hudson joins them for a few photos. She is still smiling from ear to ear. And then Mrs. Hudson takes one with the family and Molly. John assumes they are done and follows Rosie back to the puzzle. 

“Now time for a photo of my boys,” says Mrs. Hudson grabbing his elbow. “You both look so lovely.”

Sherlock looks down at the ground rolling his eyes. Is he blushing? John stands beside him and then, for reasons he can’t really explain, side steps even closer so their shoulders are touching. Or, more accurately, John’s left shoulder is pushed against Sherlock’s right arm. He feels Sherlock’s eyes on him, but he keeps his gaze on the camera.

“Smile!” says Molly and she takes a few photos. “Okay, I think we are done. Lots of wonderful family photos,” she adds flipping through her work.

John is about to go over and look when there is a knock on the door. He looks at his watch. 8:30 on the dot. 

John and Sherlock quickly say their goodbyes and make their way downstairs. John opens the front door as Sherlock puts on his long black coat. He’s pinned a poppy on the left lapel. John can’t help but think that it’s a pity Sherlock will be hiding that beautiful suit and shirt under his coat. John will be going without a coat, of course, as he doesn’t want to cover his uniform. Besides, he’s wearing that expensive thermal gear he bought for winter running under his uniform so he’s sure he’ll be plenty warm.

The man waiting for them on the other side of the door greets John with a nod and hands him a box without saying anything. It’s white with a stamp that says Finley’s (the poshest bakery in London) and is tied with a blue ribbon. On the top is a post-it note that says “For Rosie Watson” and John can smell the fresh cinnamon rolls inside. The bottom of the box is warm.

“Rosie,” John yells up the stairs, “Mycroft has brought something for you.” His little girl is at the bottom of the stairs in a flash – when did she get so fast? – and lights up at the sight of the box. 

“I have been told to relay the message that it would be polite to share,” says the driver with a tip of his hat. 

Rosie giggles. “Thank you! Bye Daddy, bye Sherlock!” She is already up the stairs and clearly isn’t waiting for her father’s permission to the eat the treat.

John sighs. “I bet you didn’t expect to be delivering baked goods to five-year-olds when you got assigned to Mycroft Holmes,” he says to the driver. This guy is probably MI5 and Mycroft has him running errands.

“I don’t know what you mean,” the agent says with a smile. “Besides, Mr. Holmes informed me that that this delivery should be handled with the upmost of care as it was going to one of Britain’s top VIPs.”

“You Holmes brothers pretend to above human sentiment. She is going to be the most spoiled girl in all of London,” John mumbles fondly as he moves outside. He looks at Sherlock through the corner of his eyes and sees the man is trying to hold back a smile. “And don’t even get me started on your parents!” John adds with a laugh. To say that the Holmes family is fond of Rosie is a gross understatement. They absolutely see her as one of their own.

John and Sherlock laugh (giggle?) as they walk to the car and get in. The laughter dissipates and the two men sit in silence for a moment while as the driver pulls out onto Baker Street. “Are you ready?” asks Sherlock looking at John. 

“I think so. This is a pretty easy job, save for my having to do all this,” John answers gesturing to his uniform. “I start up a conversation with Corporal Sandhurst while we are waiting to get started, and you will scope the two potential letter writers. Once you are done with that, you will come join me and do whatever it is you do to ascertain if the Corporal feels guilty. If you think it’s worth talking to Jones and Farris, we’ll do that after talking to the Corporal.”

“I almost don’t even want to bother with them, they both seem like longshots, but best be thorough. And it’s something to do,” replies Sherlock, more to himself than John.

They then move on to talking about what they’ll do during the ceremony itself. “Okay,” says John, “we’ll both just keep an eye out for anything out of place, in addition to watching Jones and Farris. You will be focused on the roofs and hidden areas and I will be focused on the near crowd. If you need to get my attention you will text me. My phone is set to vibrate for messages from you and completely silent for anything else. If I need to get your attention I will turn around towards you. Otherwise, I won’t be looking back.” John sighs. “I am really not expecting any excitement.”

“Me neither,” says Sherlock sounding disappointed. He doesn’t do boring well.

They sit in silence for a minute before John raises his voice again. “I don’t think the letter writer is even going to be there today. Why bother with the threats if you were actually going to do something? I mean, it’d be more effective to attack without warning. All this extra security will only make things harder.”

“I agree that it’s unlikely our suspect will be anywhere near Whitehall,” says Sherlock. “If Mycroft’s people could find no evidence of a wider plot it probably is just a disgruntled person who doesn’t actually have any chance of getting anywhere near the royals.” 

John thinks the conversation is over and considers asking Sherlock again about why he agreed to do this at all. He opens his mouth before deciding to hold his tongue. He’ll ask this afternoon after the whole thing is done. 

“The threats do increase the potential impact of an attack, however,” muses Sherlock. “Imagine the fallout if, despite these threats and knowledge of a potential attack, our suspect manages to harm a member of the royal family. Heads would roll. They would roll anyways, but the outrage would be immense.”

“Well, I for one hope that we have a boring Sunday,” says John as he adjusts his medals.

“For once, I agree with you,” says Sherlock with a small smile.


	5. Sunday - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and the lovely comments. 
> 
> Warning - this chapter contains non-graphic descriptions of violence. 
> 
> Next chapter will be posted on Friday. This chapter ends on a bit of a cliff hanger.

Sherlock and John have gone through security and are standing among the honoured guests in front of Richmond House, near the cenotaph where the ceremony will be taking place. It’s just after nine – they are early, but it seems like most of the veterans have already arrived. John isn’t surprised – punctuality is a common trait amongst service men and women. He scans the group and notices that all of the politicians who will be laying wreaths are yet to arrive. He isn’t surprised by that either. He’s glad of it too. The itinerary had explained that the politicians may want to shake hands and talk to the honoured guests before the ceremony begins, but if they all arrive late there won’t be much time to do so. John is sure that they’ll focus their time on the group of World War II vets and he’ll be in the clear.

The presence of all the guests (and absence of politicians) means that John and Sherlock should have plenty of time to talk to Corporal Sandhurst, as well as Jones and Farris. John focuses on how to strike up a conversation with the Corporal while Sherlock wanders to observe (and possibly talk to) their two potential suspects. 

John quickly eyes the Corporal and moves towards him. He is standing still and seems to be laser focused on some of the World War II vets. John moves to stand beside him and looks in the same direction. “What am I doing here?” John says quietly. The Corporal takes the bait.

“I was just asking myself the same question,” he says with a laugh. “Corporal Matthew Sandhurst,” he turns to John holding out his hand.

“John Watson…ummm…retired Captain John Watson,” John replies shaking the man’s hand. “The material I received said I should be using my title today, but it seems wrong with active service men and women like yourself here.”

“I think using Captain is appropriate and quite warranted today, sir,” says the Corporal standing at attention. “I read your biography. You served our country with honour.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” John hopes he isn’t blushing. “Well, I am glad I am not the only one who feels a bit out of place here. There are so many worthier veterans, I don’t know how my name came up.” John watches the Corporal looking for any sign he could be a spy. He realizes he has absolutely no idea what he’s looking for.

“I feel the same about active service men and women, sir. But it is an honour to be here to represent the forces. A true honour to be here with veterans like yourself and all of those gentlemen over there.” He gestures towards the World War II vets. He looks genuinely touched to be at the event. John really doesn’t think this guy is selling secrets.

Suddenly Sherlock appears beside John, seemingly out of nowhere. He is somehow getting stealthier as he ages. Sherlock looks at him and points his head towards the Corporal.

“Corporal Sandhurst, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes,” says John. 

The two men shake hands. “Do you know John from the service?” asks Sherlock. “I didn’t think he knew any of the other honoured guests here today.” Sherlock is playing a role. John is still shocked how good of an actor he is.

“We just met Sherlock,” John explains, playing along. “Besides, the Corporal here is too young to have overlapped with my service. We were just talking about how neither of us feels we belong here, despite the honour.”

“Not that again John,” says Sherlock with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You are too modest. You belong here as much as anyone. It is an honour and one that is well deserved.” He turns to the Corporal. “I read your biography, Corporal, I would say that you, like John, are too modest. Thank you for your service to the country.”

“You should meet my mother,” the Corporal points towards an older women taking pictures of seemingly everything. “You sound a lot like her.”

“Sounds like a brilliant woman,” says Sherlock with a small smile.

The Corporal calls his mother over and the four of them chat for a few minutes. Mrs. Sandhurst knows Sherlock “from the papers” and seems a bit star struck. John can tell Sherlock is using all his effort to supress an eye roll every time the woman speaks. Luckily, the Corporal dominates the conversation. John finds him to be humble, ethical, and with a dry sense of humour that has the group laughing out loud several times in their short conversation.

They part ways, and John and Sherlock are left alone.

“It’s not him”, says Sherlock bluntly. “Or he’s an absolute psychopath, but there is nothing in his service or education record to indicate that.”

“I agree,” says John. “You looked into his education record?” 

“I need something to do while you are work, John,” Sherlock says with a shrug.

John smiles. “So, did you get a look at Jones and Farris? Anything to follow-up with there?” They don’t have much time, so they better focus on the task at hand.

“Farris is not worth our time. I almost fell asleep during our one-minute chat. The man is both tedious and an idiot. It was ghastly, John. But, he also is no threat to anyone beyond boring them to death,” Sherlock rolls his eyes before turning serious. “I haven’t spoken to Jones yet. He is certainly uncomfortable being here and clearly carries a lot of sadness. All of which is to be expected, but we should try to talk to him.” Sherlock is quiet for a second. “I am amazed he is here at all. Losing a child in such a horrific way so recently. It’s not something I can contemplate.” He pauses. “Rosie is perfect,” he says almost to himself while staring straight ahead.

John swallows, unsure of how to respond. Sherlock still lacks empathy with almost everyone, but grief-stricken parents are one exception. John is sure that it’s Rosie that has led to this change. But, there is no time to think about that now. “Well, um, where is he? We best get going. Regardless of this case, we should pay our respects.” 

“Yes, of course,” says Sherlock says moving forward pointing towards a late-middle-aged man that John assumes is Jones. John follows. As they near the older man, John can see a woman in uniform jogging towards him from the corner of his eye.

“Captain Watson!” The woman slows down seeing that she has gotten John and Sherlock’s attention. “Hello, Captain” she says holding out her hand “Lieutenant-Colonel Olivia Singh. I am glad I caught up with you.”

“John, please. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am” says John shaking the Lieutenant-Colonel’s hand.

“Olivia, please,” the Lieutenant-Colonel says. “I am so glad you are here today. I just have to tell you…” she pauses. She looks like she’s trying to compose herself. “I met my best friend, George, back in basic training. Oh, that’s twenty years ago now. George was..,is…the best. He’s the reason I made it through, without a doubt. It wasn’t exactly a friendly place for a queer, brown, girl. Anyways, George is out of the service now, has been for ages, but we are still as close as ever.” She laughs, “none of this is important.” The Lieutenant-Colonel stops for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. “Here’s the thing. George went and fell in love with another soldier, Annie Jackson. It really was love at first sight.” 

John gasps at hearing the woman’s name. 

“So you remember her?” says the Lieutenant-Colonel with a smile. John gives a small nod. The Lieutenant-Colonel turns her attention to Sherlock. “Do you know what this guy did?” She’s pointing towards John. “Annie was just a private and she’d only been in Afghanistan for two months. Shot by a sniper while on patrol. Right in the chest. The chest! Punctured lung, massive internal damage. Apparently it was a blood bath that day. Chaos.” John stares at the ground with his fists clenched and his eyes closed. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him.

“Annie woke up in Germany a week after being shot hooked up to all sorts of machines. George was with her. You know what they told them? Everyone - doctors, nurses, everyone - tell them that there is no way she should have survived. Forget being in the middle of a desert in a warzone, Annie’s doctor said that she wouldn’t have survived being shot like that that in downtown London near the best hospitals in the world. They all talked about how it showed how much of a fighter Annie was. Which is true, but it wasn’t just that, was it Captain Watson? The doctor finally admitted that whoever worked on Annie out there in the desert performed a miracle. A god damn miracle.” The Lieutenant-Colonel has turned her attention back to John, who is still looking at the ground.

“The thing is, Annie said she knew it was you who treated her even before they told her. She knew it had to be. To keep calm among that madness. Nerves of steel along with a gift for medicine and surgery. Annie had only met you briefly on base, but you had a reputation and she knew.” John finally looks up, but he can’t bring himself to look at the Lieutenant-Colonel or Sherlock so he just stares off in the distance.

“Annie and George tried to contact you after she had fully recovered and they found out about your injury.” The Lieutenant-Colonel points to John’s shoulder. “Annie was so angry. Said it was such a travesty…talked about how many more lives you could have saved. I’ve never seen her like that.” John shifts uncomfortably. He’s noticed that Byron Jones is listening to the conversation. John wonders where on the body the man’s son was shot. “George and Annie were both convinced that you could have come back and become Britain’s top surgeon if you hadn’t been shot. ‘He should be a millionaire’ they’d say. But eventually they found your blog and saw that you were still out there making a difference. Nerves of steel and all that,” she looks at Sherlock who nods with a small smile.

“Annie regrets not contacting you directly, but with the time that passed she said she didn’t know how she could convey…so much. So it’s up to me. Annie is fine now. Totally fine. Better than fine. She went back to school and became a nurse. She and George have three kids.” The Lieutenant-Colonel pulls out her phone and opens a photo. “Three amazing kids. They are the perfect family; it’s sickening,” she says with a laugh. She turns her phone towards John and Sherlock. “That’s Emma, Alice, and John,” she says pointing to the picture. The Lieutenant-Colonel doesn’t explain who the little boy is named after, and John is glad. “These three human beings wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for you. When I told her that you’d be here today, Annie made me promise I’d tell you that.” 

“Thank you,” says John, desperately trying to keep it together. He won’t risk looking at Sherlock, but he can still feel the man’s eyes on him. “I was really just doing my job. It wasn’t just me out there. I may have done the surgery on Annie, but I had a great team with me. And Annie really was a fighter.”

“She still is,” the Lieutenant-Colonel says with a smile. 

John looks up and sees Jones looking at them. The older man clears his throat than asks. “Those kids…they have their grandparents around to spoil them?”

“Oh, yes,” says the Lieutenant-Colonel seriously. John wonders if she knows who the older man is. “Alice’s parents were…well, you saved many lives that day, Captain Watson.” The Lieutenant-Colonel turns towards Mr. Jones. “I am so sorry for your loss, sir. Thank you for honouring us with your presence here today. I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Singh.” She reaches out and shakes the older man’s hand.

“Yes, your son sounds like a very brave man. I am sorry for your loss,” adds John, before shaking the older man’s hand. “I’m retired Captain John Watson” 

Sherlock speaks next. “We are all indebted to him,” he holds out his hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“He was a good kid,” says Jones through a cough now. He doesn’t bother introducing himself, it’s clear they all know who he is. And who his son was. Jones is clearly trying not to cry. He looks like he’s crying a lot these days. “I am very proud of him,” he adds. 

The Lieutenant-Colonel fills the silence that descends on the conversation. “Could you tell us a bit about Owen?” 

Jones smiles and starts to talk about his boy. How he was one of those kids who pretty much lived outside, climbing trees and jumping in puddles. How he’d loved football, and decided to join the service because his favourite coach was a veteran. How he was just a good kid, who always looked out for his Dad. About how he loved being in the army and feeling like he was really making a difference. “What you all do,” Jones says gesturing towards John and the Lieutenant-Colonel “it’s important. And I am glad there are doctors like you, Captain Watson, that give service to the country. I know Owen was well taken care of even if there were no miracles that day.” 

John wants to look away from the older man, but he keeps eye contact and gives a small nod. He knew today would be hard. He had no idea how hard.

“It seems like you are still helping people, solving crime and the like, even outside the army,” adds Jones quickly, gesturing towards Sherlock and John. He’s clearly trying to lighten the mood. John is thankful and then feels guilty for being thankful. “Based on the stories at least,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Well, John writes the stories so I can assure you they are completely accurate,” says Sherlock. It seems that Sherlock senses that Jones wants to change the topic of conversation. “John insists on being open and honest, much to my annoyance at times,” he turns towards John. “I still don’t think you need to write about the unsolved cases or the times I am wrong, although I have stopped fighting you on that.” 

“HA! Let it be knowns that you have not stopped fighting me on that. Just last week you wanted me to fudge the timeline on the Watkins case to make it look like you figured it out before the police,” says John with a laugh.

“I would have if someone hadn’t made me take a break to eat lunch,” replies Sherlock with clear disdain as he spits out the final two words.

John rolls his eyes. Jones and the Lieutenant-Colonel both laugh.

“As has been mentioned, Sherlock, I’m a doctor. I am not going to stop making you engage in the basic necessities of life. Sleeping and eating.” John is trying to sound serious but says this with a smile.

“Boring,” replies Sherlock before letting out a chuckle.

“Being a doctor is in your bones, you can’t turn it off,” says a voice behind John. John turns around and sees a veteran in a wheelchair looking back at him. The man must be at least 90. He’s being pushed by a man that looks like he’s in his 60s. “You’re just the man I wanted to see,” the veteran continues, “I was glad there would be another medical man here today and I wanted to shake your hand,” he winks at John. “The name is Dr. Hugh Forrest. Corporal Forrest. Pleasure to meet you Dr. Watson.” The two doctors shake hands and John is impressed with how strong he is at his age. Both his handshake and voice. Dr. Forrest is no shrinking violet.

“The pleasure is mine, Dr. Forrest. It’s an honour to be here today with you and all of the other veterans” says John. “I remember your biography well – serving at the front in World War II as a very young man and then returning to the force to go to Korea as a freshly trained doctor. You are a credit to our nation, sir.” John means it.

“I was a kid when I went to Europe in ‘43” explains Dr. Forrest. “Signed up the day I turned 17. I told them I was 18 of course and no one bothered to check,” he says with a wink. “My mother was livid, but the country needed me.” John imagines himself at 17 and can’t imagine making the decision to go to war. “The horrors I saw still haunt me. I felt helpless watching my friends getting blown to bits. Always wanted to be a doctor and I thought that maybe, if I had been, I could have done more to help. Thought I might feel less helpless. Let me tell you what, being a doctor in war makes you feel no less helpless. Seeing a friend dead on the ground and having this head full of medical knowledge and still being able to do nothing. I will never forget that feeling,” John nods and locks eyes with Sherlock for a second before turning to look at Dr. Forrest.

“No, I imagine I never will either,” says John. “It is both comforting and tragic that I am not the only one who has felt it.”

“We all felt it, son. Feel it. All the doctors and nurses who had the privilege and sacrifice of going to war to stand by our fellow service men and women.” He pauses and then with a clap of his hands continues, “now enough about all that, I want to meet all these other fine people you are talking to. It’s so rare I get to talk to so many interesting people.”

John makes the introductions as one-by-one, Sherlock, Lieutenant-Colonel Singh, and Byron Jones shake the older man’s hand and thank him for his service. Dr. Forrest then gives his condolences to Jones and asks him a few questions about Owen – the older gentleman has obviously read through the bios closely. John can only hope he’s that sharp in his mid-nineties.

“And this is my son, Edmund” says Dr. Forrest, gesturing to the man pushing his wheelchair. “He is a doctor too. Didn’t join the army mind you…can’t blame him. Although he ended up marrying a Captain, even if it didn’t work out in the end,” he adds with a chuckle.

The younger Forrest looks a bit embarrassed and shy. He definitely does not have the brashness or confidence of his father. “Pleasure to meet you all. A privilege really. I have the utmost respect for anyone who makes the sacrifices you need to wear the uniform,” he says shaking everyone’s hand. He ends on John. “We both know the blog. Dad and me. It’s great. It is a pleasure to read – I know it’s about crime and the like, but you write through the lens of a doctor. I…we…both relate. The need to help people I mean. It’s great.” 

“We appreciate that,” says John, gesturing towards Sherlock. John isn’t used to being the sole focus of attention for so long. Usually it’s Sherlock who takes all the attention in a room.

The group of them – John, Sherlock, Lieutenant-Colonel Singh, Byron Jones, and Drs. Hugh and Edmund Forrest – start chatting about some of the recent cases John has posted on the blog. It’s nice to have a break from the heavier conversations. There is a lot of laughing. John likes this crowd – not surprisingly they are a “by the book” group. Everyone seems to take his side when talking about his disagreements with Sherlock, like John’s hesitancy to engage in their most recent break and enter. But Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind the conversation either. He isn’t saying much and is looking almost exclusively at John. He is…well…beaming.

John takes a look at his watch and is surprised how much time has passed. It’s 9:55, which means they’ll start being moved to their places beside the cenotaph in 10 minutes. Suddenly, several black cars (the same type Mycroft uses) pull into the parking lot. 

“John, it’s the politicians. You promised I wouldn’t have to talk to them,” Sherlock has gone from beaming to petulant child quite quickly.

“I didn’t actually promise anything,” replies John shaking his head. “And honestly, they are so late they aren’t going to want to talk to you and I anyways. There are far more important guests here today.” 

“Typical politicians,” says the elder Dr. Forrest. “Coming at the last minute, expecting us to be here and ready for them.” He turns towards Jones. “Unlike these kids here, I suspect all of them will definitely be wanting to shake our hands. Probably want to have their pictures taken with us too, looking solemn and all that.”

Jones nods. “Yeah, I knew I’d have to deal with all that today. I’ve talked to a lot of politicians. They don’t really get it, you know. Not many do…just the men and women at ABF The Soldiers’ Charity really.” He sighs. “Having said, the PM called me the day after Owen died and he seemed like a nice enough chap. I did appreciate it.” He pauses. “I was even polite enough to avoid mentioning that I didn’t vote Conservative last time and there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I’ll do it next time either. I’ll do my best not to mention it today too.”

The group laughs. John notices someone, an aide probably, whispering into the PMs ear and pointing to Jones. The PM starts to make his way over. 

“Well, that’s my queue to leave,” says the Lieutenant-Colonel. She looks between John, Dr. Hugh Forrest, and Byron Jones. “Thank you all for a lovely conversation. It truly was an honour, sirs.” 

“I agree,” says Sherlock. “I did not find this conversation tedious,” he adds.

“You have no idea what a compliment that is coming from him,” says John with a laugh. “It truly was an honour to talk with you.”

The group all shake hands before breaking up. Sherlock and John move away from the crowd while the Lieutenant-Colonel goes to talk to someone else she seems to recognize. They get away just before the PM reaches Jones and the Drs. Forrest.

“Well, I don’t know what you think, but I can’t see Byron Jones hurting anyone. He may get angry about his son’s death at some point, but right now he just seems sad. I was glad we were able to give him a distraction for a couple of minutes,” John says.

“There is no way that man could have written out and mailed all of those threats,” says Sherlock with a huff. “There is something though…I…something someone said…I just haven’t put it together.”

“What have you got?” asks John. This has happened before. Sherlock’s brain working in the background has tweaked that something is off, but his consciousness hasn’t put together all the pieces yet. 

“Something about the profile is wrong. Or our interpretation of the profile. It might not matter, but I know we are missing something. I just need a few minutes to focus,” explains Sherlock.

“Well, you will have plenty standing around time soon enough,” says John looking at his watch.

Sure enough, John sees the officials starting to direct everyone towards the gates. It’s 10:05 now and the ceremony starts at 10:36 AM sharp. Sherlock gives him a nod. It’s time to go.

XXXXXXXX

It doesn’t take long to get everyone in place for the ceremony. Being a military group, they are efficient and follow instructions well. The gathering crowds quickly move out of their way, and John and the other honoured guests move to their places on the east side of the cenotaph. They form two rows, with the World War II (and Korea) vets, their guests, Byron Jones, and Mary Smith (a widow whose husband was killed in action six months ago) in the front. John, the remaining vets, and the active service members form a longer line behind. Sherlock and the other “plus ones” are well back, standing right in front of the crowd there to watch the service. 

There are no assigned spots (other than the row), but John makes sure he is situated as close to the front of the cenotaph as possible (without drawing attention to himself). That way he will be close to the royal family if something does occur. He is fairly successful, managing to secure the second spot in. Dr. Hugh Forrest turns from the front row and gives him a smile, a wink, and wave – the man has managed to snag the prime spot closest to where the wreaths will be laid. John waves back and marvels at the man’s energy. John is already exhausted.

The crowd is silent. It’s eerie – there are thousands of people, but John can hear the wind blowing and the birds cawing. Suddenly, the silence is broken and the Traditional Music begins. John listens while looking around, as discreetly as possible, for anything out of the ordinary. Face always forward. So far, nothing of note. Everyone, except the musicians, are incredibly still. It’s beautiful thinks John. The music, the silent crowd, the bitter wind and overcast sky. All of it. Beautiful and solemn and important. 

The music continues and the remaining commoners - politicians, clergy and religious leaders, and a choir of children - move into place on the west side of the cenotaph. Everyone stands silently and still as the royals emerge and take their places. The Queen and Prince Philip are watching from the nearby Foreign Office balcony, along with some other people who may or may not be royals. John realizes he probably should have looked into what the “lesser” royals actually look like. On the ground ready to lay the wreaths are the usual royal suspects that have had the honour in years past. The Prince of Wales, the Duke of Cambridge, Earl of Wessex, Princess Royal, and the Duke of Kent. Not surprisingly, the Dukes and Sussex and York are absent. The Duke of Cambridge and Earl of Wessex are furthest East, closest to John and the group of honoured guests. The royals are a lot closer than John thought they would be. They really are exposed despite the presence of thousands of servicemen and women. There are a lot of body guards around, but on the east side they are all standing back near Sherlock’s group.

The service is timed perfectly. It seems as if the royals have just taken their places when Big Ben announces it’s 11 AM. A single shot can be heard before the two minutes of silence begins. John thought it was quiet before, but now there is truly no sounds beyond the wind and birds. John stares straight forward. He should be thinking about his time in service, the friends he lost, but he is focused on the task at hand. He wonders if Sherlock has figured out the problem with the profile. It is probably something minor, like the suspect is 40 or didn’t actually finish university. After two minutes, the silence is broken by the sound of the gun salute and the bugles playing The Last Post. The song pulls John back into the moment and he feels tears prickling his eyes. 

It’s now time for the laying of the wreaths and John shifts his focus to the royal family. The Prince of Wales will be laying the first wreath, on behalf of the Queen, and he starts to move towards the cenotaph. There is a lot more movement now – the crowd is getting a little restless. Nothing out of the ordinary. There is a lot of rearranging of hats and coats. Someone handing one of the World War II vets a pair of mittens while someone next to John tries to stifle a sneeze. The Prince of Wales places the wreath and moves back to his spot.

Next up is the Duke of Cambridge, laying a wreath on behalf of his grandfather. He starts the slow walk to the cenotaph and looks at John’s group and gives a small nod. When the Duke reaches the cenotaph, he will only be a few meters away. 

As the Duke starts to climb the stairs to the monument, Dr. Edmund Forrest bends down to adjust his father’s wheelchair. John thinks he’d be proud if Rosie became a doctor. They could be part of the same little club. Just like the Forrests. Suddenly time starts to move slowly. Our hero. What if the “our” referred to doctors? What if….John’s mind is moving a million miles a second even as time stands still. The pieces are coming together. Could someone fit the profile of being married if they were divorced, but still felt (wished) to be married? What if ‘losing someone’ didn’t mean they died? What if it meant divorce or separation? What if someone felt like the war had stolen their partner from them? What if they felt helpless to fix it despite being a doctor who fixed things for a living? Dr. Edmund Forrest had never been to war, but what if he felt that same feeling of helplessness that his father and John had talked about? What if he wanted someone (or something) to blame for his failed relationship?

That’s when John sees it. Edmund Forrest wasn’t adjusting his father’s wheelchair; he was removing something attached to the underside. Forrest is trying to hide it, but John is watching closely. It’s a knife. John doesn’t hesitate. Time is still moving slowly. It’s like everyone else is fixed in place, and he and Forrest are in slow motion. John knows there is no time to turn around, no time to signal to the guards. Forrest is close to the Duke of Cambridge; it’ll only take him a few steps to reach the future King of England. John moves forward, pushing past the soldier to his right and willing his body to move as quickly as possible. John was in motion before Edmund Forrest, but only by a second. The man with the knife has his eyes locked on the Duke who is putting down his wreath.

“Knife! Protect the Duke,” John yells as he surges forward. But John knows that he is the only one who has the chance to stop the attack. Forrest is close to his target, everyone else is meters away. If there are snipers on the buildings, they won’t have time to make a clean shot and they can’t risk hitting the Duke. 

John is faster than Forrest and he’s used his minuscule head start to narrow the gap between the two men. But he’s still behind. John is sure there are bodyguards and soldiers moving towards them, but he keeps his eyes fixed on his target. John wills all his strength into his legs and pushes himself forward off the ground. John knows he is going to fall and he thinks he is close enough to take Forrest down with him.

John hits – tackles, really – Forrest just below his hip. Luckily, he does so with enough force that they are now both tumbling towards the ground. Forrest looks back with rage in his eyes and turns his body in John’s direction. John knows that look – Edmund Forrest isn’t thinking right now; his body and his arm are moving on instinct. John knows what’s coming. He hit Forrest with enough force to knock him down, but not enough force to knock the knife out his hand. Before he and Forrest hit the ground, John puts his head down, brings his arm to his chest, and closes his eyes.

John keeps his eyes closed as he feels, rather than sees, the blade push into his shoulder.


	6. Sunday - Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the wonderful comments and kudos!
> 
> The final two chapters will be posted Monday.

John’s eyes are still closed, but time has started moving at regular speed. John can hear pandemonium all around him. He can also still feel the blade in his shoulder (the left shoulder again!), which is a good thing. John has been stabbed, but he isn’t currently being stabbed, which means Forrest has either given up (unlikely) or been restrained. 

John opens his eyes and sees that it is the latter. Forrest is on the ground, being held down by three bodyguards. John tries to find the Duke. He’s back standing near his father, along with some aids (they remind John of Mycroft) and several bodyguards. Someone in a suit that probably cost as much as John’s entire wardrobe seems to be trying to convince the Duke to leave the scene, but he’s refusing and staring straight at John. Satisfied that he did his job, John closes his eyes again. He doesn’t think he’s concussed, but he is disoriented and it’s easier just to avoid seeing the chaos.

John becomes vaguely aware there are people (two he thinks) near him. One is applying pressure to his wound and the other is gently twisting him to his back. John knows he should be feeling grateful, but instead all he feels is annoyed at himself. He wants to have the energy to open his eyes and search the crowd. John thinks one of the people above him, a woman, is trying to talk to him, but he can’t be bothered to focus on what she’s saying. A man (the one applying pressure) is yelling. “Where the fuck are the paramedics? What direction will they be coming from? Make a path. Get out of the fucking way, all of you. NOW!”

John decides to ignore them, instead focusing on his injury. Luckily he’s tired or he might not be able to resist the urge to pull out the knife. Interesting, he thinks, he can clearly feel the knife, but he isn’t in any pain. That won’t last – eventually the adrenaline will dissipate. Maybe it already is? John is jittery and out of breath, as well as tired. And is his left arm numb? There is too much going on – he can’t focus! John once again tries to filter out all the excess noise to give himself a chance to think. 

That’s when he hears Sherlock above the din. His friend is yelling incredibly loud (probably so that John can hear) and someone is yelling back, telling him to get back. John’s brain isn’t able to piece together exactly what Sherlock is saying, but he picks out individual words. “John”, “need”, “friend”, and even “please.” And now Sherlock is yelling “MYCROFT! MYCROFT!” John relaxes. He knows that Mycroft will work his magic and get Sherlock through to him. 

The paramedics have arrived. John somehow missed the sounds of the ambulance (did they use the sirens?), but he hears the doors open and the sounds of a stretcher being pulled out. John knows the paramedics are talking to him, asking him questions. He’ll just rest a bit longer before answering. John can feel more pressure on his shoulder and someone checking his pulse. Now someone is cutting off the shirt of his uniform. John wonders if he’ll have to pay for the replacement (and whether he should even bother getting a new one). 

John is ignoring the questions directed at him and is instead focusing on a conversation nearby. “Sir, you need to get back,” he hears a stern voice say. “We need to do our work.” John can guess who she is talking to.

“I need to get closer,” Sherlock replies. He is not yelling and his voice is shaky. He sounds…broken. Not the usual insistence and bluster John has come to expect.

John opens his eyes and turns towards Sherlock’s voice. His view of his friend is blocked by another paramedic. “Sherlock, let her do her job. I’m here. I am not going anywhere without you.”

“Welcome back, Captain,” says one of the paramedics with a relieved sigh. It’s the one putting pressure on his shoulder. John is annoyed. Just because he wasn’t answering doesn’t mean he wasn’t listening. “Do you know where you are?”

“I’m at the bloody national service. Edmund Forrest is a wanker who thinks the war stole his wife and I have a blade in my shoulder. I am disoriented and jittery, but I think that’s just from the fall and the adrenaline. I don’t feel cold, sweaty, or nauseous. I am not sure sure, but I think there is some numbness in my left arm and hand. It’s hard to move my fingers. I’ve been shot in this shoulder before.” John’s voice sounds a lot calmer than he feels. He tries to focus all his energy on getting his fingers to wiggle.

“Okay. You are going to be all right Captain, but we need to get you to hospital to get that blade out of your shoulder. It looks like it’s high enough that it’ll have missed the major veins and arteries, but we still need to stop the bleeding and repair any nerve damage ASAP,” the paramedic replies. The group of them prepare to lift him onto the stretcher.

The pain is starting now and John grits his teeth as he is lifted and placed, gently, onto the stretcher. No one is speaking now, and John can hear what can only be described as…sobbing. Gut-wrenching sobbing. John immediately recognizes where, and who, it is coming from.

“Please, let me see and speak to him,” John whispers to the paramedic blocking his view. “I’ll be quick, but…please.”

The paramedic gives John a nod and moves out of the way. Sherlock is now clearly visible – he’s only about two metres away. He is on his knees, head in hands, gasping for air. He is sobbing. Mycroft is standing awkwardly behind him. The older man tries to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, but Sherlock immediately bats it away. 

“Hey, Sherlock….it’s alright. Look at me. Look at me,” John says quietly, but loud enough that he knows Sherlock will hear. John isn’t thinking about what he’s saying, he just let’s the words tumble out of him. “You heard what they said. I’m going to be all right. I’m going to be all right, love.” 

John sees Mycroft raise an eyebrow slightly. He realizes what he’s just said, but John can’t be bothered to care. Plus, his words are working. Sherlock has stilled and is looking up at him. After a couple of seconds, he stands up. There are still tears streaming down his face, but he’s not sobbing.

“Besides, you and I have been in far worse scrapes than this,” John adds with a smile. And he is rewarded by a small chuckle from Sherlock as he wipes his eyes. John knows he can just ignore what he just called Sherlock and no one will bring it up. Or he could double down. He chooses the latter. “Come here, love. I want you….I need you with me.” John briefly switches his attention to the paramedics. “He can ride with us, right? It would make me more comfortable.” Without waiting for their reply, John turns his attention back to Sherlock.

“Of course, Captain. But we need to go now.” The paramedics move back in place. Sherlock seems to have regained his composure and moves to the foot of the stretcher so he and John can maintain eye contact. The paramedics start loading John into the ambulance.

Sherlock briefly scans the crowd and his expression shifts from concerned to panicked. “The cameras,” he says. “The cameras have been filming this whole time.” John understands immediately and panic rises in his chest as well. Sherlock whips his head towards Mycroft. “Rosie. She was watching. Mycroft can you…?”

Mycroft cuts him off. “Of course. I am dialing Ms. Hooper now. Once you depart, I will go over to Baker Street myself and bring everyone to hospital.” He switches his attention to the paramedics. “I assume you will be going to the King Edward?”

“Of course, sir,” replies one of the paramedics. “The OR is being prepped now and, if surgery is necessary, Captain Watson will be operated on immediately.” 

John can’t hear if Mycroft says anything else. He’s in the ambulance now with two paramedics. One is directing Sherlock where he should sit. The doors close. As they start moving, John looks to Sherlock and closes his eyes.

The last thing John remembers is hearing one of the paramedics say “we’re going to give you something for the pain now, Captain Watson.” 

XXXXXXXX

John opens his eyes and takes a couple of seconds to realize he’s in a hospital bed. He looks around. The room is big, bright, and filled with flowers. As in FILLED with flowers. Rosie is sitting at a small table in the corner colouring. Molly is there too, reading a book. No one else is in the room. There is a big window and the mid-afternoon sun is filling the room with natural light. This is a not a regular hospital room.

Rosie is the first to notice he’s awake. “Daddy!” she sequels, running over to stand on his right side. John smiles. He loves the way her pigtails flop up and down when she runs – she is still very much a little girl. His little girl. “You had a surgery and everyone said it went good. I was scared, but Sherlock said you’d be awake soon and now you are. He cried a bit and I told him it was okay and I even cried a bit too, but that’s okay because you can cry and still be brave.” She is rambling, which is something she does when she is nervous or scared. John knows the best thing is just to let her continue. “This hospital is close to our house. Uncle Mycroft brought us in his car, but he doesn’t drive the car. The driver was named Timothy. Mrs. Hudson stayed home and said she’d make tea and we could pick it up later. Molly says you will have to stay here for tea today. And look at all the flowers – they keep bringing more and more and more! The nurses say it’s because you are a hero and everyone wants to say thank you. Sherlock is teaching me all the names of the flowers, but I don’t remember. I like the purple ones.” She finally stops to take a breath.

“That’s great sweetie. I love you a lot.” John responds, taking her hand. “It was so nice of Molly to stay with you. Do you know where Sherlock is now?” he asks, looking to Molly.

Rosie answers first. “Sherlock and Uncle Mycroft are talking to the police to help them solve the case! The game is on!” John chuckles to himself. Given everything that happened was filmed at multiple angles, there isn’t that much to actually solve. But he understands that Scotland Yard, and whoever else is involved in this investigation, have to do their due diligence. “Sherlock will be mad at Uncle Mycroft. He didn’t want to leave the room because you might wake up and then you did and he isn’t here.”

“They aren’t far,” Molly chimes in. “I’ve just texted, so they’ll be back soon. Hi, John. How are you feeling?”

“As good as can be expected under the circumstances,” John replies touching the bandages on his shoulder. “Better now that I’ve seen my beautiful little girl. Thank you for staying here all day, Molly.”

“It’s nothing. The least I could do under the circumstances.” Molly pauses. “John, just so you know, they showed the whole thing on TV. All of it. But Rosie was in the kitchen with Mrs. Hudson making tea during the…event. She didn’t see that and hasn’t yet.”

John lets out a relieved sigh. “Which teapot did you use when you made tea with Mrs. Hudson?” Rosie takes making tea very seriously and hopefully won’t catch on to that Molly just admitted that the little girl had missed out on something interesting. Like her Dads, Rosie doesn’t like to be left in the dark.

“Mrs. Hudson let me use her small, fancy blue one. And I was super careful too.” Rosie replies. She then starts rambling about the steps she used to make the tea and how delicious Mrs. Hudson said it was.

The door whips open and in bounds Sherlock. He’s clearly been running. John smiles. Rosie and Sherlock, that’s all he needs. His family is here.

“John, how are you feeling?” Sherlock says as he catches his breath. “Any dizziness? And how is the pain. You are only on gabapentin for now, but they said they could give you an opiate if needed. The surgery went very well. It was just the single stab wound with a narrow blade, but there was substantial nerve damage to be repaired. The surgeon was disgustingly pleased with his work and I imagine he’ll be on all the chat shows tomorrow morning bragging. He’s sure there will be no lasting damage, but the other doctors aren’t as convinced, especially given your previous injury. Apparently we will have to ‘wait and see’, which is not my strong suit. Your hand isn’t shaking now though. That’s good. Can you clench your left fist?” Sherlock is rambling and hasn’t moved from the doorway.

John is aware that he once again has the opportunity to ignore what he said to Sherlock earlier in the day. But, John doesn’t want to go back to how things were before and something tells him Sherlock doesn’t want to either. John really needs to talk to Sherlock alone, but he suspects he won’t get a chance for awhile. John is secretly relieved as he needs some time to figure out exactly what he needs to say. In the meantime, John decides it’s up to him to confirm that something between he and Sherlock has changed.

“Sherlock. Come here. I’m okay. Better now that you’re here. Please come here. I think I can grip and I want to hold your hand.” John smiles at Sherlock, who lets out a relieved laugh. 

Sherlock moves to John’s side and grabs his left hand. John intertwines his fingers with Sherlock’s and gives a squeeze. He then rests their locked hands on the bed. Rosie decides she wants to be involved and grabs John’s other hand and smiles. She then reaches over the bed with her free hand to grab Sherlock’s. John has to hold back the tears welling in his eyes. 

Mycroft has finally caught up to his brother and enters the room. He looks at the scene around John’s bed and then glances over at Molly who smiles and shrugs. “Good to see you awake, Dr. Watson.” 

“Uncle Mycroft, Sherlock was right! Daddy woke up while you were gone,” Rosie says, dropping John and Sherlock’s hands and returning to her colouring.

“Yes, Uncle Mycroft. Sherlock was right. I told you the police could wait. I can’t believe you talked me into leaving this room. My god, they have video and John handed them Edmund Forrest on a platter,” Sherlock is glaring at Mycroft and gripping John’s hand tighter. 

“Calm down, Sherlock,” says John. “You’re here now.” He rubs his thumb along Sherlock’s knuckles. Sherlock stops glaring at Mycroft, but he still looks like he’s in a huff. John thinks it’s adorable.

Molly stands up. “Rosie, why don’t we walk home and see what Mrs. Hudson has put together for tea. We can bring it back here in about an hour and eat with your Daddy, Sherlock, and Mycroft.” 

“Okay. As long as I can eat with Daddy.”

Mycroft takes out his phone and sends a quick text. “Please take my car, Ms. Hooper. It will be waiting for you downstairs outside the back entrance where we came in. The hospital staff have assured me that there are no members of the media out back.”

Rosie moves back to the bed and gives John a hug. The little girl then hugs Sherlock. She whispers something in his ear and a deep baritone chuckle fills the room. Rosie looks pleased as punch that she got Sherlock to laugh. 

Just after Molly and Rosie leave, a doctor and nurse enter the room.

“Hello, Dr. Watson,” the doctor says. “I’m happy to see you awake and alert. I am Dr. Tori Winger, but please call me Tori. And this is one of your nurses, Alex Smith.” The nurse nods.

“Please call me, John”

“I understand you have work to do, so I will be brief,” Mycroft interjects. “The nation is waiting with baited breath for an update on Dr. Watson. We know the surgery went well, but thought it best to wait until John woke up. Dr. Winger, I assume you be working with the hospital communications department to release a short press release on your patient’s condition following this exam? John, if you agree, I suggest adding a paragraph noting you would like to thank the first responders for their excellent care and all of Britain for their support. I can prepare it now.”

“Mycroft, you fat, pompous git. First I miss John waking because you insisted I talk to those incompetent imbeciles from Scotland Yard and now you are focused on a meaningless press release.” Sherlock is once again glaring at his brother.

“Sherlock, love, it’s fine. He’s just doing his job, whatever the hell that is,” John says with a sigh. He starts rubbing Sherlock’s knuckles again. It seems to work. John has to stop from smiling – he is quite pleased that he has figured out a new trick to calm Sherlock. “Mycroft, can you add something asking them to stop sending me flowers?” John adds, waving a hand around the room. “Maybe ask them to donate to something instead?”

“ABF The Soldiers’ Charity,” says Sherlock matter-of-factly. He now sounds only slightly annoyed.

“Yes, I think that would be perfect,” replies John. He’s happy that it seems like the risk of tantrum has passed.

“Excellent,” says Mycroft, typing quickly on his phone. “I apologize for the interruption, please proceed,” he gestures towards Sarah and Alex.

Tori gives John a detailed outline of his injury (the biggest issue is damage to the brachial plexus) and treatment so far. She talks to him like he’s another doctor, and John appreciates her candor. Like Sherlock said, the surgery to repair the nerve damage went very well, but they can’t be sure there won’t be some permanent damage. And John is in for some extended physiotherapy. After Tori is done her summary, she and Alex spend the next 20 minutes examining John. They check his vitals, perform various tests to gauge any nerve damage, and ask John several questions (John has to glare at Sherlock to get him to stop scoffing with each new question). 

Tori gives John a smile. “You’re progressing very well. As best as we could hope. I suspect you won’t be with us very long and the long-term impacts will be minimal.”

After receiving ‘thank yous’ from John and the brothers Holmes, Tori and Alex leave the room.

Mycroft pulls up a chair beside Sherlock and sits. Sherlock stays standing, still holding John’s hand.

“I assume Sherlock updated you on his assessment of Corporal Sandhurst?” John asks now that they are alone.

Sherlock barks out laughing. “Yes, John I did. In a moment of weakness, Mycroft showed me the non-redacted file. He was trying to distract me. His ‘top’ analysts are, apparently, idiots. Which is no surprise, but I can’t believe you didn’t see it, Mycroft.”

Mycroft looks put out. “It wasn’t that obvious, Sherlock. Not until we eliminated Corporal Sandhurst as a suspect. And we had no reason to eliminate him.”

“It was obvious he was being set up,” Sherlock says with a dismissive flip of his wrist. “Everything was too perfect. Too obvious. No spy would be that stupid.”

“You’d be surprised,” mumbles Mycroft.

“Do you have any other suspects or are you back at square one?” asks John, genuinely curious. 

“Oh no, it was the Chief of Defence. Without a doubt.” Sherlock sounds bored.

“Really? Are you sure?” says John. “That seems like a pretty big deal. The repercussions will be enormous.”

“Am I sure?” says Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. John laughs.

“As it turns out, the Chief was rather sloppy,” Mycroft says with a sigh. “Not with the spying per se, but in his attempts to cast suspicion on the young Corporal. Once you view the evidence with the eye that Corporal was being setup, the perpetrator becomes clear.” He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I must admit that I dropped the ball on this. Sherlock is correct, I should have recognized the evidence sooner.”

“No harm done,” says John with a wink. He knows it’s a bad joke, but he can’t help it. “It was a good thing we were there today.” From everything Tori told him, John’s injuries are relatively minor and he shudders to think of what would have happened if Forrest got the Duke of Cambridge and was able to stab him more than once.

“No harm done,” whispers Sherlock to no one in particular. He then coughs and looks at the ground before speaking again. “John, Mycroft, I would like to apologize for my…behaviour…today. I lost control and was a distraction. I am not sure what happened. I admit it was a….an emotionally charged day for me before the service even began.” He pauses and looks to Mycroft. “As you know, in most situations everyone focuses on me and undervalues the importance of John to our work. He’s too often an asterisk. And no one ever mentions John’s past. It’s like he didn’t exist before me. I know that this is partially because John downplays himself on the blog and because I am…how I am.” He turns his attention to John. “But today, I was the asterisk, John. It was wonderful. You were forced to get the attention and praise you so rightly deserves. The experience led me to be emotionally compromised.” Sherlock pauses and looks to the ground again. “And then you figured out the puzzle without me and didn’t hesitate to put yourself in harm’s way. We do that, you and I, but we are usually together. And I couldn’t get to you. I could see it all, but could do nothing. I was helpless.” He looks up to John again. “To go from the honour and elation of being by your side as you finally got your due to the fear of not being by your side while you were hurt…it seems it was too much.”

John is doing his best to keep it together.

Mycroft clears his throat. “I suspect finally getting to see Dr. Watson in uniform may have had something to do with you feeling emotionally compromised, brother mine.”

There is silence in the room for a second before all three men burst out laughing. Big belly laughs. 

“For what it’s worth, Sherlock, we are not usually together when we ‘put ourselves in harm’s way.’ I am usually trying to catch up to you when you’ve taken off without me,” John says with a smile. He’s wiping aware tears. He isn’t sure they are just from laughing.

John is still laughing when Molly and Rosie arrive with Mrs. Hudson in tow a couple of minutes later. 

XXXXXXXX

John is lying in his hospital room alone, looking out at the window at the beautiful half moon. It’s just past 11 and he’s been alone, save for the occasional nurse visit, for a few hours now. John was right - he didn’t get a chance to talk to Sherlock alone today. Sherlock and Mycroft found a big table from somewhere in the hospital and they all ate tea together in John’s room (whatever rules this hospital had about visitors clearly didn’t apply to him). Molly left first after tea, followed by Mycroft yelling into his phone about the “insipid media.” Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, and Rosie stayed until 8:30, at which point Rosie was starting to nod off. Sherlock insisted that he and Rosie could sleep at the hospital, but John forbade it. John suspected Mrs. Hudson had stuck around to provide John backup when Sherlock inevitably tried to stay.

“You have two choices, Sherlock,” John had said. “Neither of which involves staying here. Rosie needs to sleep in a bed. You will go home and sleep in my bed, so that Rosie isn’t alone in our room tonight or you will let her sleep with you, in your bed.” Sherlock begrudgingly acknowledged that John was right. 

After that there were hugs all around and the trio left. It was a fairly anticlimactic end to a crazy day.

So, John is alone now and is grateful. He needs a chance to just think. Think about the day and what has happened and what is going to happen. Or what he hopes will happen. It looks like his injury is going to heal just fine, which is a relief. He’ll take a couple of weeks off from the surgery and then be back at it. He’ll go in next Monday to keep his appointment with Joan, however. That gets John thinking that he should probably look into some counselling for Rosie. He and Sherlock both have standing appointments with a psychologist (they see different ones), so getting a referral to a good child psychologist shouldn’t be a problem. 

Then John thinks about how he should get something written and up on the blog as soon as possible. Could he start working on it tomorrow? He’ll likely be discharged by the end of the day given how well he is recovering. He certainly doesn’t want to do any interviews or talk to the media yet, and he is sure Sherlock doesn’t want to either. Sherlock….

Deep down John knows what he has to do. He’s been ignoring his feelings (desires?) for years. Well, to be honest, he’s ignored some desires since he was 14. It was easy because he was genuinely happy being with women in the past, even if he could always appreciate a good looking person from any gender. And sure, he still appreciates a beautiful woman, but he hasn’t wanted to actually date one in ages. There have been a few feeble attempts since Mary died, but nothing of note. And nothing at all for almost three years. He knows why.

It’s because he’s taken. Sherlock is already his partner. Partner in work, partner in parenting, partner in life. John chuckles to himself. God, that’s sappy. The next step is to telling Sherlock all this and finding out what his friend actually wants. Because, while John is happy with his life now, he is finally admitting that he wants more. And there is no way Sherlock that will ever initiate the conversation. It is up to him. John closes his eyes and quickly falls into a deep sleep.


End file.
